


Things That Haunt Us

by emungere



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 58,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks very much to Cabiria and Justblue for betaing!</p><p>The majority of this was written while Firefly was still airing, well before the movie was even thought of and before the unaired episodes were released in any form. Therefore, some things won't quite fit with canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuzzy

Mal’s brain is pleasantly fuzzy. His arm is slung around Zoe’s shoulders for support– his, not hers, since she of course is steady as a rock. It is summer on Greenleaf, or at least this particular part of Greenleaf, and the air is body-temperature warm and wet enough to swim through.

His ears are buzzing gently, blocking out traffic noise and Zoe’s quiet complaints alike. He knows she is complaining because that is her accepted role at times like this. He is dizzy in that way you are when you’re drunk, when the world stands still but your brain is spinning slowly in your skull.

And he is drunk. Oh, yes, definitely.

Not that it was his idea. This is entirely Zoe’s fault.

She has left her faithful husband all alone and dragged her captain out to two… three… _several_ bars tonight.

Yes. Of course this is the way it must have happened.

They turn a corner, and he stops short. A smile spreads across his face.

“Look…”

“Yes, sir.”

There is a certain note of weary patience in her voice that he chooses to ignore.

“That’s my ship.” There are times when this still takes him by surprise. “Ain’t she pretty?”

“Yes, sir.”

He could stand here a damn long time just watching the way the moonlight falls on her hull…

Zoe starts walking again and, perforce, so does he. He might not fall over if he let go of her, but it’s not something he wants to test just now. He feels good, and the ground hitting his face would not feel good.

They swim out of the warm, damp air into Serenity’s cargo bay.

“Hey, Zoe?”

She sighs. “Yes, sir?”

“Why’d we leave that last bar?”

“Because you made a pass at that guy, and he didn’t take it too kindly.”

“What guy?”

“Guy that looked like Jayne.”

Mal stares at her. “I made a pass at a guy who looked like _Jayne?”_

She smirks sidelong at him. “That you did, sir. And I’m not saying it wasn’t funny to watch, but I thought I’d better save you from yourself.”

“This is why I don’t drink, Zoe.”

“Yes, sir. _I_ remember that.”

Even pleasantly fuzzy, he catches her emphasis. “You implying something with that statement?”

“Just that it might have been good if _you’d_ remembered it a little earlier in the evening.”

“Hey, don’t look at me, this was your idea. I’m the innocent victim here.”

“Whatever you say, Captain.”

This was her idea, wasn’t it?

He thinks hard, dredging his brain for anything that might have sunk below the surface.

He remembers setting out by himself as the sun was setting, remembers Zoe catching up with him.

He remembers fire eating at Serenity until he purged her, and biting cold afterwards. His ship silent, lifeless, drifting. His crew gone, telling himself it didn’t matter because there are some things you do alone even if you’re in a room full of people, and dying is one of them.

He pushes thought and memory away, but although his brain is still fuzzy, the feeling is no longer so pleasant. His gut hurts, and the stitches pull at his skin.

No, maybe it wasn’t Zoe’s idea.

He stumbles away from her to sit on a crate. “Go on to bed,” he mumbles. “I’m just going to sit here a while.”

To his surprise, she does leave, although through the door to the infirmary and not up toward the crew quarters. Well, no matter. She’s gone anyway, and he’s alone.

He hunches over with his head in his hands, feeling suddenly queasy. The problem, he is sure, is not that he’s drunk, but that he’s not drunk enough any more. If he could stand up and walk straight he would go and find another bottle, but that is out of the question for the moment.

He hears footsteps. Shiny shoes enter his field of vision.

“Zoe says you’re in pain, Captain.”

He looks up, taking in neat black pants, shiny vest, silky shirt. The fabric of the shirt looks smooth and cool, and he has the sudden urge to rub his face against it.

“I’m okay,” he mumbles, looking back down.

“You’re drunk.”

“Well, yeah.”

“That was a very serious wound, Captain, and you’re treating it like it was a scratch. You’re lucky you survived, and barely a week later you go out on a drinking binge? What were you thinking?”

“‘S’not a binge. Wouldn’t call it a _binge_. I think those have to last longer.”

“If I had you in a proper hospital you wouldn’t even be out of bed yet.”

“If you had me anywhere at all, I wouldn’t be thinking of getting out of bed yet.”

Silence.

He looks up to find Simon staring at him with wide eyes and open mouth.

He isn’t quite sure why until he runs a quick review of the last thing he said. Oh. Yes, there are very good reasons why he doesn’t drink much.

He opens his mouth to say something apologetic, but it doesn’t quite work out.

“I like your shirt,” he says.

“You like my…” Simon’s features smooth over. “Come on, Captain. There are some pills I’d like you to take, and then I think you should lie down.”

Simon takes his arm, and Mal gets to his feet.

“You’re going all doctory on me, Simon.”

The man beside him freezes for a second, then gets both of them moving efficiently in the direction of the infirmary.

“It’s my job, Captain. It’s why you hired me.”

“Not the only reason.”

“No?”

No.

Mal remembers watching him work on Kaylee, every move calculated for maximum efficiency, every word quiet and calm. Mal had as good as told him that his survival depended on saving her life, and he worked under that pressure as cool as if he was bandaging a scraped knee instead of patching up a gut wound, as if he had all the time in the world to do it, as if she wasn’t bleeding to death right there on the table.

Those were good reasons for hiring him, but not the only ones.

Mal stumbles, his foot catching on a seam in the floor. Simon steadies him with an arm around his waist, holding him close for a moment.

“Thanks.” He is just slightly breathless from the feel of Simon’s body pressed against his own. A lock of dark hair has fallen in Simon’s eyes, and Mal pushes it back into place with clumsy fingers. “You’re nice and warm,” he says, despite his attempts to stop himself.

“Really. And that was the other reason you hired me?”

“No. And just ’cause I’m drunk don’t give you the right to laugh at me, you know. I’m not _that_ drunk.”

“Oh, I really think you are.” Simon guides him the last few steps to the infirmary and points to the exam table. “Sit here.”

With some difficulty, Mal does. He swings his legs, kicking the side of the table.

“Stop that. And take these.”

“What are they?”

“They’ll sober you up. Somewhat, at least. We can’t expect miracles. And they’ll minimize the damage you’ve done to your body’s natural healing process tonight.”

Mal takes the pink pills and drains the glass of water.

“Does this mean I won’t have a hangover in the morning?”

“No. I see no reason why you shouldn’t suffer for your mistakes.”

“Oh.” He rests his head in his hands, rubbing at his forehead. It hurts. Maybe the hangover is starting early.

Simon sighs. “Oh, all right.” He turns away, fiddling with something, and then turns back to inject something into Mal’s arm. “Just this once. And don’t tell Jayne, or he’ll be in here every night.”

“No problem. Big secret. Won’t tell nobody.”

Simon is smiling at him now, and he likes that. Nice smile. He doesn’t see it often.

With Simon’s help and encouragement he gets down off the table, and finds he is marginally more stable on his feet. He puts an arm around Simon anyway, rubbing the cool silk of his shirt with his thumb. He was right; it does feel good.

He pauses in the cargo bay, pulling Simon tight against his side as he makes sure the door is properly locked. He could do this in his sleep if he had to, but Simon’s miracle pills are doing their job, and his free hand moves easily over the controls.

He hears the locks click into place and stands still with his palm flat against the console, just listening to his ship, feeling her gentle vibration.

“Captain?” Simon says quietly. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Nope. Everything’s shiny. Everything’s… perfect.”

He hesitates to use the word, but this is as close to perfect as things get. Serenity is fixed. All his people are safe. He’s not going to have a hangover tomorrow. If he can’t use it now, then when?

“You really love her, don’t you?”

“Hmm?”

“Serenity.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Simon smiles up at him. “Come on, Captain. Time for bed.”

Up the stairs to the crew quarters, Simon tucked neatly under his arm. Mal’s head is clearing faster than he really wants it to, and he keeps thinking he should let Simon go, but… he feels good there. And Mal figures he is still drunk enough to get away with it. Simon doesn’t seem to be objecting.

They arrive at his quarters, and Simon opens the door for him.

“Well, doctor? Aren’t you going to come down and tuck me in?”

Simon smiles. “I don’t think so.”

“I might fall and knock myself out.”

“If you’re so drunk you can’t make it down the ladder, you can sleep in the infirmary.”

“No thanks.”

“I thought so.”

They look at each other for a silent moment.

“Happy birthday,” Mal says.

“My birthday was last week. You know that. It was on my arrest warrant.” There is the faintest tinge of bitterness to Simon’s voice.

“But I didn’t get you anything.”

“So…?”

Mal takes Simon’s chin in his fingers, tipping it up, holding it so carefully. While his hands now seem nimble enough for machinery, they still seem far too clumsy for this.

Simon allows it, and Mal watches his eyes flutter closed. The kiss is brief, almost chaste, and as Mal pulls back he ducks down for a second to press his cheek against the silk of Simon’s shirt.

“So happy birthday,” he says.

He turns toward the ladder, but Simon’s voice stops him.

“What was the other reason, Captain?”

“Huh?”

“The other reason you hired me.”

“Oh. I like you. When you’re not all…” He waves a hand vaguely.

“All what?”

“Doctory. Or fussy and sarcastic, which is really most of the time.”

Simon steps toward him, slow and deliberate. He licks Mal’s lips, licks his way between them, stands on tiptoe as he maps the curves of Mal’s mouth, sliding his tongue against Mal’s for a maddeningly brief second before withdrawing.

Mal blinks. It takes a second before he remembers to start breathing again. He realizes he is holding Simon close, one hand on his back, one hand on his ass, and while Simon doesn’t seem upset about this, he is gently pushing against Mal’s chest. Mal lets him go.

“But not all the time,” Simon says.

“No, not all the time… You sure you don’t want to come down?”

Simon just looks amused. “You’re drunk, Captain. Go to sleep.” He walks away down the hall, hands in his pockets.

Mal watches him go, then climbs slowly down the ladder and lies down on his bed. He puts a hand on the wall, feeling that constant, comforting vibration. He smiles to himself.

He is thinking, among other things, that he will not be drunk tomorrow. For the first time all evening this seems like a good thing.


	2. Tokens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: “Fei hua” means “nonsense”.

Simon sees Mal stagger down the hall, supported by Jayne, and takes an automatic step towards him. Book grabs his collar and yanks him back.

“You wait till they’re on the ship, son. Two minutes more won’t make much difference.”

Simon waits, tension coiling in his stomach.

He sees Book whip the barrel of his rifle around and jumps at the sound of the shot. Another man falls, perhaps hit in the kneecap, but the wound looks more permanent to him.

Finally Jayne and Mal reach the doorway, and Simon slips under Mal’s other arm, taking as much weight as he can. There is a second of horror when he sees the captain’s face up close, sees the pain in his eyes, but that is all. Then he isn’t thinking about how much Mal must hurt; he is only thinking about how best to repair him.

_You’re going all doctory on me, Simon._

Mal’s voice, blurred with drink, replays in his head as it has a thousand times since that night. He can’t be sure, but he thinks it was the first time Mal ever called him by name, not doc or doctor or _boy_ for god’s sake. He likes the way Mal says his name.

With Jayne’s help, he gets Mal onto the exam table in the infirmary.

“Help him lie down,” he tells Jayne.

He washes his hands to the sound of Mal grumbling that he can gorram well lie down by himself. Jayne starts to stomp out, muttering about ingratitude and needing to clean Vera.

“Hey, hold it,” Mal says. “Doc needs to take a look at your shoulder.”

“It ain’t nothing. It’ll keep.”

“If it’s nothing then it won’t take long to fix, so just you stay right there. Doc?” Mal nods to Jayne as he glowers in the doorway.

Jayne strips his shirt off as Simon approaches.

“The bullet went straight through.” He looks up at Jayne. “Can you wait? I can give you something for the pain. I’d like to get the captain’s ear reattached before the tissue deteriorates any further.”

Jayne glances over at the Mal at the mention of the ear. “Fine with me. Like I said, it ain’t nothing. If you weren’t here I’d slap a bandage on and forget about it.”

“Well, let’s be glad I am here then.” He gestures toward the couch. “Go sit down. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

There is a snort from Mal as Jayne leaves. “Slap a bandage on and forget it. He’s just trying to show me up. Any other time he’d be bawling like a baby.”

Simon ignores him, assembling his instruments.

“Any day here, doc,” Mal says. “Just been tortured is all.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to rush this, Captain.”

Calm is essential. Dr. Mericet drummed this into his impressionable first-year students with whip-fast interrogations interspersed with brutal personal commentary as they cut into their first corpses. _Did you wash your hands, Mr. Tam? You can’t bribe germs away, you know, no matter how much money your parents have._

Mericet’s jibes were the verbal equivalent of Jayne’s guns, blunt and artless–and effective. Nothing upsets Simon now when he is working.

He turns to Mal, who is looking up at him, face pale.

“Did Zoe give you my ear?”

“She did. Next time you feel like playing Van Gogh to my Gauguin, keep in mind that flowers are generally preferable to body parts.”

Mal frowns at him. “Who’s Van Gogh?”

Simon assembles the tools he will need, answering absently, glad he has Mal’s mind on something other than the sorry state of his body.

“He was an artist on Earth-that-was. A few of his paintings are still preserved. Really quite lovely in a disturbing sort of way. Van Gogh cut his ear off and sent it to Gauguin.”

“Why?”

Mal is staring at him, eyes unfocused but obviously trying to follow the conversation. At times like this people will focus on almost anything other than the pain.

“Lovers’ spat. Also Van Gogh was insane, and I don’t imagine the absinthe helped either.”

“Absinthe,” the captain mumbles, but it’s not a question, just a repetition. Mal is fading fast.

Simon fills a syringe. “Time to go to sleep, Captain.”

Mal’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist with startling speed. “No.”

“This will be painful,” Simon says patiently, as if Mal doesn’t realize this. “It would be better if you slept through it.”

“No. I’m staying awake.” The captain’s eyes are fierce. “I don’t care to argue about this.”

Simon takes a deep breath and sets the syringe aside. “Fine. Can I give you a local at least?”

Mal’s grip eases. “Local’s fine. Wouldn’t want to distract you with my screaming or nothing.” From the sound of his voice, the captain has done more than enough screaming already.

“You’ll have to be very still now. Can you do that, or shall I strap your head down?”

“I won’t move.”

He didn’t mean the restraints to be a threat, but he can see that Mal has taken them as such. He is deathly still as Simon administers the local anesthetic and begins his work.

“Is he dead?” Simon asks, trying to distract Mal as he retrieves the severed ear from the cooler.

“Who?”

“Niska.”

At least it was a clean cut. If he does this right Mal shouldn’t even have a scar.

“No. No, he ain’t dead.”

“Did you break?”

He sets the ear down on a bed of gauze and sets about cleaning the wound. The blood is caked thick around it, but at least that seems to have washed away most of the particulate matter.

“He wasn’t asking for information.”

“You know what I mean.”

The blood cleaned away, he finds the edge almost completely free of the embedded fragments he often sees in cases like this. Of course, with no attempt made to staunch the bleeding, that makes sense. No fabric fibers left over from dirty handkerchiefs, no specks of dirt or gravel from a hand clapped over the wound.

“No,” Mal says after a long silence. “I didn’t break. I was in his face right to the end.”

“He’ll want you back.”

The dermal mender, acquired for them by Inara’s client, starts up with a gentle buzz.

“I know.”

“You should have killed him.”

“I ruttin’ well know that, Simon.”

He pauses in his work. There it is again. His name, for the first time since that night. He likes it as much as he remembered, even with the irritation.

Not now. Can’t think about that now. He runs the mender lightly over each edge before pressing them together. Another pass with the mender, guiding it over the join, back and forth, over and over until the seal is solid.

“Your ear’s done. Are you sure you won’t let me put you out?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right then.” He would argue, but from the way Mal looks he’ll be passing out any time now anyway. “Let’s get your clothes off.”

He unzips one boot slowly. He is trying not to remember a certain patient of his, another torture victim. It wasn’t too bad until they got his shoes off, but…there are so many things that can be done to feet. Simon had cause to thank Mericet that day.

His shoulders relax minutely when the boot slips off to reveal only a grey sock, unstained by blood. Mal’s toe pokes through a hole in the end.

“What are you smiling at, Doc? I could use a cheerful thought around now.”

Simon looks up. “I didn’t know I was. Smiling. It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay. Got anything in mind? ‘Cause I gotta say the whole subject of torture is looming large for me right now.”

Mal’s face is bloodless, his eyes very wide as if he is trying hard to keep them from closing. His arms lie stiffly at his sides, and his hands are clenched. The knuckles are white.

Simon leaves the boot and takes Mal’s hand, ignoring Mal’s startled look. The hand is ice cold. Mal’s silence is almost a comment in itself, but Simon waits and gradually the hand relaxes. Simon eases the fist open to reveal a palm littered with red crescent moons and crusted with blood where the nails have broken the skin.

“This isn’t supposed to hurt. This isn’t supposed to be as bad as what he did to you. Let me give you something.”

Mal just shakes his head.

Simon looks down at Mal’s hand cradled in both of his.

“Let go, Mal. You don’t have to fight any more. You’re safe.”

Mal laughs at that, a rusty, bitter sound.

Simon reaches behind him. His hand encounters the bottle exactly where he expected it to be, and he opens it quickly and pours a small amount over Mal’s chest where it fizzles and bubbles in the wounds.

Mal makes a small, shocked noise and loses consciousness.

Simon sponges away the hydrogen peroxide and picks up the syringe with the sedative. With luck it will keep Mal out for three hours or so.

That done, he strips off his gloves and sits down, face in his hands, fingers pressing hard against his eyes. He is thinking of all the pain Mal went through, which he has now added to. Not by accident, not to treat him, but on purpose. Enough to make him pass out finally, which apparently even Niska didn’t manage.

He looks down at his shaking hands, spreading the fingers wide and watching them until they are steady again. Mal’s laugh is going to haunt him for a long time.

He shakes himself and stands.

“Jayne? Can you come in here a moment?”

Jayne appears at the door. “You done already?”

“No. Come and lift his hips up so I can get his pants off.”

“Why don’t you cut them off? Ain’t that how it’s usually done?”

“I’ll do that,” Simon says briskly. “And when he wakes up I’ll tell him it was your suggestion, shall I?”

Jayne gives him a dirty look and slides his hands under Mal’s waist. “He’s not gonna come to while I’m doing this, is he?”

“Not for a few more hours.”

“He let you dope him?”

“‘Let’ isn’t the word I would have chosen. He passed out, and I made sure it would last.” Simon works the pants down over Mal’s hips, down to his knees. At first glance there are no obvious wounds; perhaps Niska confined his activities to the torso and above.

He finishes with the boots, pulls the pants the rest of the way off, and covers Mal with a sheet. When he looks up, Jayne is watching him.

“He told you not to, didn’t he?” Jayne asks.

“Yes.”

“And you did anyway.”

“Yes.”

Jayne shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have done that. He’s gonna be mad.”

“No, he’s not, because he’s not going to know.” Simon stares down at Mal’s pale face. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“What makes you think I ain’t gonna tell him? He gives the orders around here, not you.”

“You’re not going to tell him because you’re worried about him, and you don’t want to upset him.” He looks over at Jayne, who is watching him with the same sullen rebellion he more often directs at Mal. “He needs rest. He doesn’t need to be worried by irrelevancies.”

He stares steadily until Jayne finally drops his eyes and gives a fractional nod.

“You need anything else, Doc?”

Simon almost asks him to stay. He can feel his professional front deserting him every time he looks at Mal’s face. Jayne’s presence would force him to stay objective. He didn’t think it would be so hard, even with Mal. Even when Zoe handed him the ear, it was nothing like this.

“No,” he hears himself say. “Close the blinds, and then you can go.”

Jayne does just that without argument or hesitation, and Simon is left alone with Mal.

No, not with Mal. With his patient.

Mericet would be laughing his ass off right now.

It’s all right, he tells himself. Take it one step at a time.

He washes his hands again, the ritual calming him somewhat. He snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and turns resolutely back to Ma–to his patient.

A catalogue of obvious injuries forms in his head as he looks over face, chest, and arms. He pulls the sheet aside, folding it neatly at the bottom of the table.

There is not so much blood as burn marks, bruises, scrapes. He cleans the body under his hands with measured precision, making himself think about every motion so that he cannot think about anything else.

The door is closed for the same reason the blinds are closed–to protect Mal’s privacy or his own; he’s not sure which–and the air grows close and hot. His hands are sweaty inside the gloves.

Here on the right side of the chest, a scrape four inches long. Antiseptic on gauze pad, wipe.

Here, contact burns from electrodes, four of them, spaced evenly. Antiseptic on gauze pad, wipe. Note for later application of burn cream.

Here, left hand and right hand, deep nail marks on the palm, tiny incisions. Blood to be cleaned away. Antiseptic on gauze pad, wipe. Cream and bandages applied immediately to keep the fingers from closing over the wounds again.

Mark by mark, wound by wound, he cleans the body in front of him. His mind empties, but in a small corner of it he knows this is not the detachment he has come to count on. This is some trance he has fallen into, lulled by necessary attention, and in a minute the surface work will be done, and he will have to see what Niska did to his patient’s insides.

The mark in the center of the chest is, once cleaned of blood, clear: five small holes in a star pattern where the wires buried under the skin. He has seen it before. The nerve interface device has genuine medical uses, but a simple alteration can burn out nerve connections with pain–or pleasure, which was what he more commonly saw at the hospital. He doesn’t think somehow that Niska was interested in the pleasure option.

This will be delicate work, and he can’t afford to do it in this dull, unthinking state. On the other hand, he is almost afraid to do it any other way.

This has never been a problem before. Always, detachment has come as naturally as breathing. He has never had to work at it. He doesn’t know how to work at it.

He looks over the body in front of him, seeing not a collection of parts that need to be repaired, but the whole. He sees the beauty he has always seen in Mal, and there is actual physical pain in the pit of his stomach at what has been done to that beauty.

He wonders how many times Mal has to go through something like this before, something that no one should ever have to go through. He wonders whether, if he could go back in time and meet Mal before the war, he would even recognize him.

Picking up a gun firing a few shots–and missing, he suspects–is not comparable. He is never going to know what it was like for Mal, and he doesn’t want to. He isn’t sure he would survive it. He isn’t sure Mal survived it.

He shakes his head sharply. Mal has to survive this physically intact, and Simon can see that he does. Anything else will have to wait.

***

Nearly two hours later Simon ties off the last stitch and peels his gloves off. There is some nerve damage; he can do nothing about that, but the worst of it is that Mal will have a small numb patch on his chest, no bigger than a thumbprint.

He walks to the door and leans heavily against it for a second before opening it.

“Jayne? I can do your shoulder now.”

Jayne looks him up and down. “You sure about that? You look near as bad as he does.”

Simon points to the stool. “Sit,” he says shortly.

“Huh. You’re starting to sound like him, too.” Jayne sits, taking off his shirt as Simon gathers what he needs.

Hand washing again, gloves again, suture kit. Again. This is simple, and it’s a good thing. He is about done in.

Jayne hisses as the needle goes in, and Simon jerks back.

“Oh, my god, Jayne, I’m so sorry.” He reaches quickly for the local anesthetic. “And no painkillers either. You should have said something, it’s been _hours_ …”

“You had other things to think about.”

Simon shakes his head absently, picking up the needle again. “Really, I’m so sorry. That was unforgivable. I had two patients, not one.”

“Drop it and sew me up already. I got stuff to do.”

Simon complies, smiling to himself. For Jayne that was almost nice.

“All right, you’re done.” He strips off the gloves, hopefully for the last time today, and looks around.

A good half of his instruments need to be sterilized, and Mal’s blood is on the floor, on the sheet, on Simon’s shirt. When he gets the infirmary cleaned up he’ll be able to rest for a while.

He picks up the instrument tray, turns, and almost walks straight into Jayne who is standing right behind him.

“Was there something else you needed?”

Jayne takes the tray from him. “Where do you want this?”

Simon blinks at him, surprised, and nods to the counter. “Over there for the moment.”

He gives Jayne the mop and tends to his instruments. They work in silence, or with an occasional grunt of pain as Jayne abuses his shoulder.

“You should be resting that.”

“It’s my gorram shoulder. I’ll do what I want with it.”

“I thought you had things to do.”

There is a pause. “Shut up.”

Simon looks away to hide a smile. “He’s going to be all right, you know.”

Jayne looks over at the captain for about the twentieth time in the last five minutes. “I ain’t worried. Captain’s too ruttin’ stubborn to–” He breaks off. “I ain’t worried.”

A few minutes more see them through the worst of the clean up, and Simon sits gratefully on the stool. Jayne is still hovering, leaning against the wall by the door.

There is a faint sound from Mal, and Simon is on his feet and standing by the exam table without being entirely sure how he got there. He takes Mal’s pulse, which is still slow and steady. He checks the clock. Should be a little while yet before Mal wakes up.

The captain’s face is still pale, the bruises coloring to lurid purples and greens. His lip has started leaking blood again, and Simon wipes it away.

“Jayne?”

There is an unenthusiastic grunt of acknowledgement.

“Have you ever wanted to kill someone?”

Jayne snorts. “Killing folks is pretty much my job description, Doc.”

“No. I mean have you ever _wanted_ to? Not for a job or because they were trying to kill you, but just… just because you wanted them dead.”

He doesn’t know quite why he’s asking, except that it would be comforting to know he is not alone in his desire to wring Niska’s neck, and if anyone can sympathize, surely it’s Jayne.

“Sure. Lots of people.”

“Lots?”

“Well… some. I wouldn’t have minded shoving you out an airlock when you first came on board.”

That’s hardly a surprise. “But not now?”

“A man can get used to most anything.” There is a moment’s silence. “We couldn’t go looking for Niska. Had to get Mal out.”

“I know.”

“Reckon we’ll get another chance sooner or later.” Jayne aims an unpleasant grin at him. “We’ll get you a seat right up front, Doc. Learn to shoot straight, and you can pull the trigger yourself. I ain’t greedy. Long as the bastard’s dead, it don’t much matter how it happens.”

Simon finds his eyes drawn back yet again to Mal’s face.

“It’s always good to learn a new skill,” he says.

***

Simon is dozing lightly on the bench in the infirmary when he hears Mal stirring. He gets up, wincing at muscles that have set up and now resent any movement.

Mal squints up at him. “Simon?”

“Right here. You’re fine. Your ear’s back on.”

“Everyone’s okay?”

“Everyone’s okay.”

Mal stares blankly up at the ceiling for a moment, then frowns. “I told you not to put me under.”

Could he be more of a stubborn bastard? Is it even possible?

“I didn’t.”

“No… No, you dumped _acid_ on me, and I passed out! What happened to ‘do no harm’?”

“Hydrogen peroxide. It only felt like acid. It got your wounds quite clean.”

Mal glares at him. “You made me pass out.”

“You wouldn’t let me do it the easy way.” Mal looks ready to work himself into a state over this, so Simon cuts him off. “It was necessary.” This is almost true.

“Necessary how?” Mal asks suspiciously.

“I wouldn’t have been much of a doctor if I’d let you subject your body to that kind of stress. Pain isn’t just something you ignore. There are physical correlations, none of them good for you.”

All true, but not why he did what he did. That was more like panic, or something close to it. He should have…

“I should have just ignored what you said and doped you up,” he says. But he couldn’t do that. Mal would see it as betrayal, and he doesn’t have it in him to hurt Mal that way.

“No,” Mal says. “You shouldn’t have.”

Simon thinks he’s going to do the ‘It’s my ship and you’ll follow my orders or you’re out’ thing, but he doesn’t.

“I shouldn’t have?”

“No.”

“Why?” Simon prompts. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but there is something there if he can dig it out.

“Because.”

“Because…?”

Mal shakes his head, a slight movement. His eyes drift away from Simon’s face, unfocussed and wandering.

“Mal?”

“You wouldn’t do that to me,” Mal mumbles as his eyes close again.

The words are so quiet Simon barely catches them.

***

Mal is tucked up in Simon’s bed, too weak to make it up the stairs to his own room. Simon didn’t like the idea of him being so far from the infirmary anyway. This way if anything goes wrong, all his equipment is right around the corner.

He must admit though, nothing looks likely to go wrong. Niska is a careful son of a bitch. The injuries were calculated for maximum pain and minimum damage. Simon supposes he should be grateful for this since it means Mal is still alive and will be up and around in a few days, but all he feels is hot, simmering rage just behind his eyes, giving him a headache.

He leans back in his chair and watches Mal sleep. Now that he has leisure to think instead of act it is too easy to imagine what Mal has gone through. The injuries told the story better than words could.

It hurts to think about it. He doesn’t want to imagine these things happening to anyone. He wants to live somewhere where people are human instead of monsters, where his sister wasn’t tortured as some kind of experiment, where the man who kissed him so gently a few months ago wasn’t tortured for fun.

“Simon?”

He looks over to see Kaylee standing in the door, twisting her hands together.

“Is he gonna be okay?” she asks.

“He’ll be fine. You can come in if you like. I don’t think you’ll wake him.”

She nods and walks softly to the bed. She stands looking down at the captain’s still face for a moment and then bends to kiss his cheek.

“You get better real soon, you hear?” she whispers. “Real soon.” She sniffs and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

Simon holds out his handkerchief, but she shakes her head, holding her hands up for display. “You’d never get the grease out of it. He’ll really be okay?”

“He’ll be up and bossing you around again in no time.”

Her smile doesn’t have its usual sun-breaking-through-clouds effect, but she does look happier. She was the only one of the crew who hadn’t stopped by, and Simon was wondering when she’d show up. Maybe she was just scared to look. Mal doesn’t make a pretty picture right now.

She squeezes Simon’s hand briefly. “You were real brave today. Just wanted to say thanks and all.” She blushes prettily and turns away.

He watches her go, almost wishing he could follow. What Kaylee has been offering him in her sweet and cheerful way would doubtless be simpler and less painful than anything he might find with Mal.

“Bossing?”

Simon turns, startled, at the raspy voice from the bed. Mal’s eyes are still closed, but one corner of his mouth is turned up in a crooked smile.

“You are the boss. It’s what you do.”

“Thanks a bunch.”

He sees Mal’s face twist with pain as he shifts. “Do you want painkillers? I gave you something earlier, but you could have more now. Or something to help you sleep?”

Mal makes a vague negative noise. “I just want to not move.”

“You really should sleep. You’ll heal faster.”

“She likes you, you know.”

Simon pauses, shifting gears. “I know. I don’t like her like that.”

Mal snorts. “Don’t like her like that? We’re rubbing off on you, Doc. Two months ago it would’ve been, ‘I don’t see us forming a romantic relationship,’ or some such.”

“Fussy and sarcastic?” Simon suggests.

It is a calculated risk, this reference to that night. He hasn’t pushed the issue–he needs his place here on Serenity too badly, and Mal is a dangerous man to push–but he finds he is no longer willing to let it lie either.

“Sometimes,” Mal says quietly. “Sometimes real brave. You ever fired a gun before today?”

“No.”

“Guess I should be thanking you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Simon–”

“Sleep, Captain. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“No gorram drugs. How clear do I gotta make that?”

“I think you’re being unnecessarily stubborn about this. I wouldn’t be suggesting it if these drugs were in any way harmful–”

“I don’t like stuff that knocks me out.” A sullen pause. “I’ll take the painkillers, I guess. But not the other.”

“All right.”

Everything he thought he might need is laid out on the bedside table, and it’s not hard to find what he’s looking for. Simon smoothes the dermal patch into place and sits back down.

“Try not to talk. You need to rest.”

Not feeling so free to stare now that Mal might open his eyes and stare back, Simon picks up his current book. It’s not as easy as usual to lose himself in the complexities of the language, but he is deep enough into it that he is startled when Mal speaks again.

“Whatchya reading?”

“The Iliad.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about a war that happened a long time ago.”

It’s about anger and how destructive it can be, and it’s a good match for his mood. His own anger is too close to the surface right now. He doesn’t want Mal’s thanks. He wants Mal to open up to him, or to at least be willing to talk to him for more than a minute at a time when he’s not drunk or drugged.

“On Earth-that-was?”

“Yes.”

He’s starting to believe that Mal isn’t capable of anything resembling intimacy or even normal friendship. He doesn’t know why he ever thought something would come of that drunken kiss. Doesn’t even know how or when he came to want it so much.

“This where you learned about Van Gogh and what’s her name?”

Simon laughs, caught off guard. He hadn’t thought Mal would remember any of that conversation.

“No. This was centuries before they were born. And Gauguin was a him, not a her.”

“Oh. You said lovers… I just assumed.”

“Assumptions can be dangerous.”

Minutes pass.

“Still reading there, Doc? Ain’t heard a page turn in some time now.”

“Yes,” Simon lies. “Still reading.”

“That good, huh?”

“I’ve always liked it.”

“Read me some.”

“You want a bedtime story?” He doesn’t even try to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“Yup.” No trace of shame there, just a heavy hint of smugness.

Simon smiles to himself. He can’t help it. He likes Mal. Despite the barbed comments and the impossibly thorny front he puts up… or maybe it’s not a front. Maybe Mal is just thorny all the way through.

He turns to the first page.

“Meynin aiedey, thea, Peleyiadio Achileyos oulomeneyn–”

“Si-mon. You’re talking gibberish. What is that fei hua?”

Slight shivers at the sound of his name stretched in plaintive protest.

“It’s ancient Greek.”

“What, two languages ain’t enough for you?”

“Shall I take this to mean you don’t want to hear any more?”

There is a pause and then, “No. Keep going. It sounds kind of nice.”

Simon keeps reading, long past the point where Mal’s gentle snores suggest he is asleep at last.


	3. Intersections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: “Chur ni-duh” means “screw you”, “ta mah duh” means “motherfucker”.

“Is he awake?”

Mal recognizes Wash’s voice, but keeps his eyes closed. Wash will want a destination, and he doesn’t have one in mind. Hasn’t, frankly, been able to stay awake long enough to think of one.

“Yes,” Simon replies.

“He doesn’t look awake.”

“He’s awake. He’s not snoring.”

That’s just too much. Mal abandons his tactical silence. “I do not snore.”

“Told you he was awake. And you do, you know.”

Mal sighs and opens his eyes. Should have kept his mouth shut.

“Hey, Captain.”

“Wash. You wanted something?”

“Just wondering where to take us. We’re a good long way from the skyplex, but…” Wash shrugs. “There’s a lot of space out there. I’m all for the running away, but is there a direction we should be running in?”

Mal looks up at the ceiling, wishing he’d refused the last round of painkillers Simon offered him. They cloud his mind, and he doesn’t much like them, but Simon was so insistent. Doesn’t want him to hurt. And maybe he’s not as good at saying no to Simon as he should be.

“Wash, I’m not sure he’s really up to this–”

“He’s plenty up to this, thank you very much,” Mal cuts in. Pushing the painkillers is one thing. Telling him he can’t run his ship is another.

He slaps his brain around a little, but there isn’t a planet he can think of that he would call safe, and he needs safe right now. He hates to admit it, but he is out of action for the time being. Way out of action.

“How are we fixed for supplies?” he asks suddenly.

“We’re good. Full up on just about everything.”

“Good. We got to get that dermal whatsit back to the Councilor or whoever eventually, right?” Simon nods. “Her planet’s got that desert, where the terraforming failed. Put us right in the middle of that, and crank the sensors up. I want to know if anything gets within a hundred miles of us.” As far out of action as they can get.

“Can do, Captain.” Wash hesitates. “How are you feeling?”

“The doc tells me I’ll be up and bossing people around again in no time.”

They both shoot a look towards Simon after that comment, but Simon is wearing an astonishingly good poker face.

“Right,” Wash says. “I’ll just get to that then.”

But he doesn’t. He hovers, looking like he has something else on his mind.

“Mal…what you did…”

“Yeah?” Mal asks sharply. He can’t relax until Wash is gone, and all this looking able and alert is taking its toll.

“I just…”

“Spit it out or get to work. What am I paying you for anyway?”

Wash’s eyes narrow for a second. He ducks around the corner without saying another word.

Mal lets his eyes close again. He wishes Simon wouldn’t keep telling him to rest. It’s all he wants to do, but having someone tell him to do it makes him want to do just the opposite.

“You should talk to him.”

Mal sighs mentally. “I was trying to take your advice and get some sleep here, Doc. Is this a conversation we need to have right now?”

“I think so.” Simon’s voice is unusually chilly. “He feels awful, you know. All he needs is a few words from you. Do you enjoy watching him suffer?”

“Suffer? Wash? Never saw a less suffering guy.”

There is silence for a moment. “Get some sleep, Captain.”

Shit. Like that’s possible now.

“He didn’t look upset,” Mal says. He realizes he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“He got out and left you behind.” Simon doesn’t say ‘you idiot,’ but Mal can hear it anyway. “Wouldn’t you be upset?”

“If Zoe’d picked me instead? I’d be mad as hell. Wasn’t Wash’s job to stay behind. He knows that.” Doesn’t he? Of course he does.

“Does he?”

“I thought I was supposed to be getting some sleep.”

Simon doesn’t answer, but there is an emphatic quality to his page-turning now.

As tired as he is, his mind worries at what Simon has told him. He still finds it hard to believe Wash has been jealous of him all these years. It’s about the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. He always thought the constant low-level anger Wash directed at him was some kind of anti-authoritarian thing. One thing he is sure of: Wash with constant low-level guilt will be far worse. If Simon is right, he’ll have to do something about it. Unfortunately, Simon is seldom wrong.

“And by the way, I do not snore.”

“You really do,” Simon replies calmly.

“I do not. Ask anyone.”

“What, anyone who’s slept with you? A fairly exclusive list I should think.”

“Ask Zoe, she’ll tell you.”

He could practically hear Simon’s raised eyebrow. “Will she?”

“You don’t get private rooms during wartime.”

“There were mortars, I assume? Gunfire, that sort of thing? She might not have heard.”

“There were quiet nights. Mostly when everyone ran out of ammo, but there were quiet nights.” He pauses. “I don’t snore.”

He feels a stab of pain as his hands clench, fingers digging into already abused palms. Simon is sure to ask. Never should have brought up the damn war. He never does, and he can’t imagine what possessed him. That was practically an invitation.

But all Simon says is, “Even if you didn’t then, which I’m not granting, it doesn’t mean you don’t now.”

The sudden rush of gratitude Mal feels is simply embarrassing. He turns his head away.

“No one else has complained.”

“I’m not complaining.” He can hear the smile in Simon’s voice. “I think it’s cute.”

Mal opens his mouth and closes it again. Something tells him it would be good to let this one go.

But…cute?

“I don’t snore. And I ain’t _cute_.”

“Go to sleep, Captain.”

This time Simon’s voice is warm and amused, and Mal finds himself relaxing almost against his will. Sleep is creeping up on him, and he doesn’t resist.

***

When Mal wakes again the room is dark. A faint glow from the hall shows him Simon slumped asleep in his chair, book face down on his chest. He checks the clock. It has been more than twenty-four hours since he got back to Serenity, and he hasn’t left this bed since he got into it.

Simon’s bed. Simon’s sheets, too. He doesn’t know when these replaced the rough cotton ones he provided, but they feel awfully good against his skin. Not silk, but they remind him of the way Simon’s shirt felt against his face for that brief moment, cool and smooth. Only he’s promised himself he won’t think about that.

He sits up slowly and swings his legs off the side of the bed. His vision goes dark for a second, and his head pounds with his pulse.

His legs ache when he gets up. Ache is sort of an understatement, actually. Every muscle screams at him to sit the fuck back down, and when he reaches out to brace himself his arms add their protest. He can feel his knee joints grind. He feels old.

The ship is quiet, humming gently as she takes them away from danger. He stops to slide a hand up her wall. He doesn’t know her moods as well as Kaylee does, but there is a comfort there. He knows what she should sound like, and he doesn’t sleep well planetside any more. The quiet wakes him up.

He shuffles into the cargo bay, automatically checking the locks, as if closing the airlock is something any of them would forget with hard vacuum outside.

That done, he takes a long look at the stairs.

On the one hand, his bunk is up there. He’s already sick of Simon’s room, with its attendant guilt over kicking the doc out of his own bed. Mal figures if he can make it up all those stairs Simon will have to agree that he’s well enough to move out.

On the other hand, he’s not sure he can make it up all those stairs.

No pain, no gain. No guts, no glory. And other crap like that. He starts up.

It only takes about five minutes to make it to the second level, which he figures isn’t bad. He wonders how the hell the bottoms of his feet can hurt. Niska never got below the waist–for which he makes a mental note to feel grateful when he has the energy. Simon was right; it could have been a lot worse.

Panting on the top step, he looks up at the next flight. Not just yet. He glances around, and his eyes light on Inara’s door.

Knock? Nah. It’s late. She might be sleeping.

He opens the shuttle door a crack and peeks inside. There is light, so he pulls it open and walks on in.

“Mal!”

He’s never known anyone who can shriek as genteelly as Inara. He looks around and spots her by the curtain of fabric that separates the shuttle part of the shuttle from the sex shop part of the shuttle.

“What?”

“Can’t you ever knock? _Ever?_ I’m not even dressed!”

“You look dressed to me. Hell, you’re wearing more clothes right now than I’ve ever seen on you before.”

This is true. The loose gray pants and faded black shirt cover her from neck to ankles. It’s not her normal style, and there is a sizeable hole in one of the knees, but it’s not like she’s naked or anything.

“I’m not– Can’t you just– Mal, leave! You can’t just come wandering in here in the middle of the night!” As she speaks she pulls a rust and gold colored robe off a hook and clutches it against her. “I’m not even wearing make-up,” she says in a quieter voice.

Mal frowns at her and more or less collapses into a seat. “You look fine. What’s the problem?”

She sighs and tosses the robe on the bed, muttering something that he can’t hear.

“What was that?”

“I said, I should have known.” Then the penny drops. “Mal, what are you doing here? You should be in bed.” She comes over to sit by him and flutters and fusses. “Are you all right? Do you want me to call Simon?”

“I’m fine. Just out for a walk and thought I’d say hi. Hi.”

“Hi.” She peers anxiously at him.

“Huh. You’re really not wearing make-up. And your hair’s sort of…”

“Sort of what?” she asks in a don’t-you-dare tone.

He shrugs and doesn’t dare. He didn’t come to pick a fight after all, and it doesn’t look bad as such. It’s just really pulled back tight, which makes her look a bit surprised in the eyebrow department. And no make-up, which looks weirder than he thought it would.

She subsides. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Don’t I look all right?”

He gets an irritated glance for that, which is probably fair. Judging from the amount of pain he’s in and from the way his lip keeps splitting open at the least provocation, he’s guessing his face has seen better days.

It’s kind of morbid maybe, but he’d like to see the bruises before they fade, and he wasn’t about to ask Simon for a mirror. He pokes at his lip again, and his finger comes away bloody. Again. Dammit. Can’t seem to leave that alone. Looking around for something to wipe it on, he spots Inara’s dressing table, complete with tissues–and mirror. Two for one. Shiny.

He lurches upright before she can offer to retrieve the tissues for him and lowers himself into the seat, blotting his lip. He looks in the mirror.

Wow. He’s been beat up before, but he’s never seen quite so much of his face turn green all at once. There are the more classic purples and blues, too, but it’s mostly green. He touches the neat line of stitches by his hairline. Simon did that. It’s been less than a year, and already he’s lost count of the number of stitches Simon has put in his skin.

“The bruises will fade, Mal. I could–” She stops.

He meets Inara’s eyes in the mirror. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “I don’t suppose you mind looking like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She taps at a bottle on the table. “It’s good for covering up bruises.”

“You sound like you got some experience with that.”

“You can’t look like that when you…do what I do.”

“No, I guess your clients wouldn’t much like paying for damaged goods. Unless they were the ones doing the damaging.” He holds her gaze. “You’re gonna tell me if anything like that happens while you’re on my ship, right?”

“Mal…”

He picks up the bottle. “None of this. Just tell me. And you don’t got to worry about any sword fights. That sort got no honor. You just got to put ‘em down.”

She gives him a watery smile. “How did we end up talking about my bruises?”

He looks back at his reflection. “You’re gonna tell me, right?”

She nods, finally. “Yes, Mal. I’ll tell you. I doubt it will ever happen again. It was a very long time ago.”

The mirror and his reflection both start to swim in front of his eyes. “Good. That’s good.”

He tries to stand, and darkness descends, sliding down like ink poured over his eyes.

***

“Mal? Can you hear me?”

That’s Simon’s voice. Mal thinks he should say something, but his tongue is thick, and his mouth is dry, and it’s so much easier to keep quiet. Not like Simon sounds worried or anything.

“Mal, I need you to answer me.”

Shit. He has to answer now. Does Simon really know him that well?

With effort he makes some kind of grunt. As if in reward, a cool hand strokes across his forehead.

“I’m glad you’re back with us. Next time perhaps you’ll listen to me when I tell you to rest.”

“I’m not in your bed.” The sheets are wrong. These are silk, the slippery kind.

There is a pause before Simon answers, and his voice sounds odd. “No. This is Inara’s room. Do you remember getting here?”

He has to think for a second, but then it comes back.

“‘Course I do. I’m not ruttin’ brain damaged, Simon.”

“Really?” It is Simon’s sniffy, huffy voice. “You could have fooled me. What were you thinking? Oh, never mind. I don’t suppose you were thinking at all.”

“I just got beat up a little. It’s not like I’m seriously hurt.”

“Open your eyes, Mal.”

He does, and Simon’s face is very close.

“You have just about exhausted your physical resources,” Simon says, using his slow and careful explaining-to-idiots voice. “You have internal injuries. You need rest.” Simon’s expression hardens. “And you know that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have snuck out while I was asleep.”

Mal sits up, an arm coming solicitously around his back despite Simon’s thunderous expression. He looks around.

Inara is standing off to the side, her arms wrapped around her stomach. She looks cold.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“I’m fine. The doc’s overreacting as usual.” He gets his feet on the floor, ignoring the head rush.

He says his good nights to Inara and heads for the door, very aware that he probably wouldn’t have made it to his feet without Simon’s bracing hand on his back. Out in the hall, he makes it to the stairs and sits down hard. Simon sits beside him.

“You’re an idiot,” Simon tells him.

He leans his face in his hands and then jerks away again. It hurts. “Probably,” he sighs. “I didn’t want to throw you out of your own bed.”

“I liked having you there just fine,” Simon says softly.

Mal glances at him sharply, but there is no hint of innuendo in his face. There is only concern, and a warmth and presence he doesn’t see in Simon very often.

Mal looks down at his bandaged hands. “I’d rather sleep in my own bunk tonight.” He swallows, the words nearly sticking in his throat. “Help me up the stairs?”

“Of course.”

They are halfway up when Simon speaks again, quietly enough so that Mal can pretend he hasn’t heard.

“All you had to do was ask.”

Mal can’t decide whether this is Simon being nice or Simon kicking him when he’s down. Anyway, he’s got bigger problems. Like Simon’s warmth against his side, like the muscle he can feel beneath cloth and skin where his hand rests on Simon’s shoulder. Like the fact that they’re now standing by the door to his bunk, and all Mal can remember is the kiss they shared here, months ago now.

The worst part is that when he looks at Simon’s face, he can tell Simon would let him do it again. Right here, right now. And he wants to. So bad.

He pushes the door open and focuses on not falling down the ladder. At the bottom, he stops, breathing hard. Simon follows him down.

“Planning to tuck me in?”

“Or maybe read you a bedtime story.”

“Special treatment. I’ll have to get myself tortured more often.”

Simon’s hand on his back guides him toward the bed. “Please don’t.”

Is he really so dizzy that he needs to hold onto Simon’s shoulder as he sits? Maybe. Maybe not. But he does, and Simon is so close now, bending over him, and Mal’s hand brushes over one smooth cheek. Simon’s lips part–surprise, protest?–and Mal leans forward.

Their mouths rest against each other, just barely touching. The moist warmth of Simon’s breath flows over Mal’s lips. It’s not really even a kiss. There is only pressure and nothing more as he leans still closer, only Simon’s mouth unmoving against his and the wash of heat it brings.

He pulls back abruptly, shaking his head and looking away. “I didn’t mean to– I shouldn’t have– Hell.”

Simon cups his face in his hand and smoothes a thumb over his cheekbone. Then he straightens up and moves back a step without saying a word.

“You can go,” Mal says. “I’m fine now.” Thinking, please get out of here, for the sake of my sanity if nothing else.

“I’m staying.”

Shock. His eyes jerk up to meet Simon’s, but it’s perfectly clear at once that he didn’t mean for _that_.

“Why?”

“No one can hear you down here if you need help.”

“The whole point of this was so you could sleep in your own bed tonight.”

“The whole point was so _you_ could sleep in your own bed tonight.” Simon sits, sprawls, in Mal’s chair. “Your chair is much more comfortable than mine, so it’s a step up for me, too.”

Mal pulls his legs up onto the bed and underneath the covers, suddenly aware that he has been tromping around the ship in bare feet, and that those stairs were _cold_.

“Get some sleep, Captain.”

“If you say that one more time, I’m gonna pop you one.”

“Wouldn’t that be a refreshing change of pace.”

Which is totally unfair. He’s only ever hit Simon once…all right, twice, and it’s not like there’s been a lack of provocation.

“Hey, what are you getting all snotty about? All I’m asking for here is a little privacy.”

Simon looks at him, and Mal has to look away. There are too many things unspoken between them.

“I’m staying,” Simon says flatly.

“Gorramit–”

“You can try and force me to leave if you want to.”

He can’t. He knows that. Hates the knowledge, but that doesn’t change anything. It never does.

He lies down and turns his face to the wall.

“Good night, Captain.”

“Chur ni-duh.”

“Sweet dreams.”

He hates this. _Hates_ it. Doesn’t think there’s any way to communicate to Simon just how much. He wants Simon close as badly as he wants him gone, but not like this. Not with all his choices taken away. Not when he knows that he couldn’t change things if he tried. Too weak to throw Simon out. Too weak to stop wanting him here.

He lies still, tense and stiff, until he hears a sigh behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Simon says.

Mal doesn’t answer. Simon has nothing to be sorry for. Hasn’t in fact done anything wrong. Is only doing his duty as he sees it. He can’t stand that Simon will apologize for this just because Mal needs him to.

“I should have asked,” Simon continues. “Mal, I need to stay. I need to make sure you’re all right. Can I stay? Please?”

Simon really does know him that well.

“Yeah.” His voice is strained. “You can stay.”

“Thank you.”

Mal curls in on himself, feeling just as helpless as he did when Niska had him tied down. No, more. This is worse. He can’t hit Simon, can’t even yell at him. Can’t get him to understand how much this feels like a trap.

It ought to be easier now that Simon has asked permission, and in a way it is, but it’s also worse. Simon knows him well enough to ask when he didn’t have to. Cares enough to let him have the appearance of choice if not the real thing. Knows him well enough to use the magic words: _I need this from you._

Anything for his crew. Anything they need, because they are his reason for living. Simon included. Simon especially.

No. The doctor is nothing special. Just one of his crew, his people, his family. That’s enough.

Even if it’s not enough, it has to be.

Tense as he is, he is also exhausted, and sleep will come eventually. In the meantime he divides his thoughts between wishing he’d never let Simon on board and wishing he’d never left Simon’s bed.

***

Mal leans back in his chair, smiling quietly to himself. Supper is over, but no one has made a move to leave the table. To his left Kaylee bends toward River, the two of them playing cat’s cradle and Jacob’s ladder, the string moving through their fingers faster than he can follow it. To his left Jayne argues with Wash over the tactics of their invasion of the skyplex while slowly picking a roll to pieces. Mal’s smile grows. Listening to Wash talk about tactics is just funny.

He meets Zoe’s eyes and watches her lips curve ever so slightly. Everyone is in a good mood tonight.

A burst of laughter comes from the opposite end of the table, and he looks over to see Simon, eyes bright and face flushed, nearly doubled over at something Book said. Inara is cracking up, too.

Mal watches just a little too long.

Simon gets himself under control and as he looks up his eyes catch Mal’s. And hold. A fraction of a second too long, and then he looks away.

Mal pushes away from the table and walks out.

Runs away, if he’s going to be honest with himself.

He stops in the cargo bay, not knowing where else to go. Tonight is the third since he got back, the first he’s joined the others at supper. The first Simon won’t be sleeping two feet away from him.

This is a good thing. He has to believe that.

He turns at the sound of footsteps. Wash is standing in the doorway.

“You kind of took off there,” Wash says.

“Needed some air.”

Wash rolls his eyes upward, considering. “Mm…I’m pretty sure there was air in the kitchen.”

“Then why don’t you go back there and breathe some of it.”

Wash’s jaw is doing that lock-down thing it does when he’s got something on his mind that he knows Mal won’t want to hear. Mal doesn’t know why he bothers, since they both know he’s going to say it anyway.

Finally he busts out with it. “You’re not the only one he fucked over! And we came after you, didn’t we? Didn’t we?” Wash demands.

“Yeah…”

“Yeah! So why are you– How can you–” He throws up his hands. “Ta mah duh, Mal! Why are you being such an _asshole_?”

“I–”

“Walking around like it was only you that got hurt, and, and…” He sags, defeated. “I didn’t have a choice, Mal. It’s not like I wanted to leave you behind.”

Mal looks at him for a second, waiting to see if he’s done. Decides he probably is, or even if he’s not now would be a good time to get a word in edgewise.

“Well, that’s a load of crap if ever I heard one,” Mal says.

Wash just gapes at him. “You, you–” But apparently he can’t think of a word bad enough, because he just stops, running hands through his hair so that it sticks up even more than usual and making a wordless noise of frustration.

His eyes are flashing, and there’s a second when Mal thinks Wash will take a swing at him. In his current state Mal suspects he would go down at the first punch, so it’s a bit of a relief when Wash tunes it down from incipient super nova to merely sullen.

“You want to explain that fun little statement, Mal? Want to tell me why you think I hate you that much?”

Mal is too weary for sympathy. He doesn’t want to have this conversation at all, but of course Simon had to be right.

“You weren’t happy to leave? No more torture–that wasn’t fun for you? ‘Cause it sure as hell would’ve been for me.”

“Mal…”

“It wasn’t for you to stay behind. I would’ve kicked Zoe’s ass six ways to Sunday if she’d gone and picked me instead, not that there was a chance of that happening.”

Wash does the jaw thing at him for a second and then relaxes. “Kick her ass? Get a grip, Mal. She could so take you.”

Neither of them is smiling, but there is a lessening of the tension crackling through the air.

“I’m not acting like anything, Wash. This is how I am. You know that.”

“A bastard.”

“Yup. That’s me.”

Wash takes a deep breath. “So I’m just making a fool of myself here.”

“Pretty much. It’s done. There weren’t no choice for any of us.”

“Yeah.” Wash nods slowly, looking suddenly as tired as Mal feels. “Yeah. I’m gonna go find Zoe. Help with the dishes. Or something.”

Mal watches him go and lets himself lean against the wall, tipping his head back. A sound, the brush of fabric on metal, makes him turn. River is leaning against the wall right beside him.

“How in the hell did you get there?”

She tips her head back, mirroring his former position. “Ways and ways,” she says.

“Did you want something?”

She looks straight at him, pushing away from the wall. “I’m keeping score,” she says.

She shuts her eyes and backs away three steps before turning and walking in a straight line for the door, eyes still closed. Precise, measured paces.

Just what he needed. More cryptic pronouncements from Serenity’s resident nutcase, and all the more disturbing because he always has the feeling that what River is saying would make perfect sense if only he was smart enough to understand it.

He is too tired for this crap.

He heads for his bunk, letting himself slowly down the ladder and dropping into his chair. He rests his face against the leather and catches a faint scent. Simon’s aftershave.

As he pulls himself out of the chair his door opens. Simon climbs down without announcing himself.

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” Simon meets his eyes steadily. “I thought you might want me here.”

“I don’t.” The rejection is automatic. He regrets the words, but can’t take them back. This is the way it has to be.

Simon takes a step closer. “Mal…”

“I talked to Wash. You were right.”

“Did you get it sorted out?”

He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell with Wash. I just wish…” He catches himself. Wishes never did anyone any good.

“What?”

Mal shakes his head. “Same old thing. That things weren’t so complicated.”

“But they always are.”

“Yeah. They always are. Simon…I can’t do this with you. I don’t even know that I want to. Things get screwed up enough without helping them along.”

“Do you want me to go?”

No. Fuck, no. He wants Simon’s skin under his fingers, smooth and warm, wants to taste that mouth again, wants to forget…or have something new to remember.

“Yeah,” he says. “I want you to go.”

Mal steps aside to let him by, but Simon stops as he reaches him and takes hold of his shoulders.

“Simon…”

“You get your wish, Captain. I won’t bother you again.”

Simon kisses him briefly, too briefly, and walks away.

Mal watches him disappear up the ladder, feeling his hands clench into fists at his sides. His throat aches, and his eyes burn. He slams one fist into the wall, almost hoping to feel something break.


	4. The Widening Gyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title stolen from “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats.
> 
> Warnings: Mention of past rape.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Mei mei = little sister

Simon is planning murder. Not seriously, not yet at least, but still planning.

It’s not the first time. At Medacad, bored to death with the introductory classes and cut off from River, sick of Homer and Ovid and Arthur Conan Doyle, he took to planning Mericet’s death in excruciating detail as his version of Sherlock Holmes’ seven percent solution. It was only an intellectual exercise, but it proved to be just as addictive as the great detective’s cocaine.

The exercise upon which he is currently embarked is somewhat less intellectual. Niska won’t give up. Sooner or later, someone on Serenity will have to kill him.

Simon doubts it will be him and can’t really imagine taking a life, even Niska’s, but at the same time he can’t help thinking about it.

It wouldn’t be easy, of course, but that just makes the exercise more interesting.

The first logical step is to gather intelligence, so he is babysitting the autopilot for Wash and searching the Cortex. There are too many Niskas, and Simon doesn’t know the man’s first name, so he starts by calling up pictures for all of them. Wash keeps referring to Niska as ’sort of corpsified and evil, with glasses.’ Surely there can’t be more than one Niska who fits that vivid description.

The first is much too young. The second is a woman, despite her first name being Alex. The third is the right age, but Simon can’t imagine that face belonging to a torturer. That face looks like it has grandchildren and probably bakes for them.

It’s not until number eighteen that he hits the jackpot. It’s the eyes. The face is smiling, but the eyes are cold behind wire-rimmed glasses. He just knows.

He is still staring at that picture when a hand falls gently on his shoulder. He looks up to see Inara staring at it also, her face pale and her lips parted. The hand on his shoulder is shaking.

“Inara, what…?”

“How did you–” She has to swallow and start over again. “How did you know? Did Mal ask you to– But how could he know? I hardly told him anything.” She looks down at him finally, and her eyes are frightened. “I don’t understand. Simon, what’s going on?”

He has never seen her so shaken. He doesn’t understand the reaction and figures he has exactly one chance to find out what’s upsetting her before she withdraws behind her practiced facade.

He picks through her disjointed words and makes a guess.

“It’s all right,” he says. “Mal’s not planning to do anything stupid.”

The grip on his shoulder eases fractionally. “Then why are you…?” She nods to the screen.

“I thought someone should know something about him. Just in case.” This is absolutely true. He picks his next words with care. “Mal let a few things slip, by accident I’m sure. Do you want to tell me about it?”

He keeps his voice neutral, calm. No pressure here. After a second, she yields and sits beside him.

“It was a bad job,” she says softly, not looking at him or at the screen. “You hear about them, but you never think it will happen to you. You’ll be more careful. You’ll make better choices.” She shakes her head slowly, hair cascading around her face. “I made a mistake. I didn’t check him out well enough. There was so much money… It was my fault, really.”

There was a time when Simon couldn’t understand the capacity for violence that some people carry within them all the time. He’d never had anything to be that angry about. That was before River was taken. These days, it seems his anger just builds and builds on itself. He wonders if eventually it will be too much for him and he will–snap. In some way.

“Was it very bad?” he asks. He would like to tell her it certainly wasn’t her fault, but now is not the time for that. Better to keep her talking.

Inara is looking at the picture again and doesn’t answer.

“Inara?”

“Niska,” she says, finger tracing the name printed at the bottom of the screen. “That wasn’t his name. That wasn’t the name he gave.” She looks at Simon. “This is _that_ Niska. You didn’t know anything about…”

“No,” he says quietly. “But it might help to talk about it.”

She hesitates, and he thinks she will just get up and leave, but in the end she stays, tense on the edge of her seat, back stiff. Her face is turned away, hidden by her hair.

“It wasn’t like it was for Mal and Wash. He was just…rough. And he wouldn’t stop.” The soft catch of breath suggests tears. “It hurt. He hurt me.”

“I know,” he soothes.

She looks over at him. “You believe me.”

“Of course I believe you.”

“You say ‘of course’ like… It’s not ‘of course,’ Simon. No one else ever did.”

A single tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it away smoothly, mindful of her make-up. She stands, not quite looking at him as she speaks.

“I’d rather this didn’t get around. You understand.”

“I understand.”

She falters for a second, her sudden calm deserting her again. “Please don’t tell Mal,” she pleads. “He knows enough as it is. He’ll be– You know how he’ll be.”

“I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

She thanks him quickly and is gone before he can say anything else.

Simon turns back to the Cortex. His exercise is getting less intellectual all the time.

***

“Not like that. Gorramit, Doc, are you even paying attention here?” Jayne rearranges Simon’s hands on the gun with surprising patience, considering the exasperation in his voice.

“Sorry.”

Simon is paying attention, but he has other things on his mind. The major other thing on his mind is standing a few paces back, leaning against the side of the ship and watching. The other thing on his mind these days is almost always Mal. He doesn’t need the man standing there impinging on his consciousness in the way that Mal always does, distracting him just by being there.

Making him think about what will never be.

He’s sure of that now. He floated along on a soap bubble of hope until Mal issued his declaration. No. N-O, no. Get-out-of-my-bunk no. Simon sees no room for hope now. Once Mal decides something, it stays decided.

Simon is afraid that if he keeps trying, the answer might turn into get-off-my-ship no. He can’t have that.

So he will ignore Mal lurking behind him and damn well learn to shoot straight.

He takes aim once again. The cans Jayne has set up on a dune are just visible in the haze of the desert sunset. It was too hot during the day, and the sun is sinking quickly. He’s going to hit one of those cans before it goes down.

Jayne is talking him through it again, and Simon knows the words–squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it, don’t hold too tight, don’t hold too loose, wherever you’re looking that’s where you should be aiming–but they’re not part of him yet. He has to think about every movement, and he is more impressed with Jayne’s skill right now than he ever expected to be.

He fires. Misses.

“Squeeze, don’t pull. You’re jerking up at the last second.”

Simon mumbles an acknowledgement and takes aim again.

Arms come around him from behind, startling him so much that another shot flies off wildly into the growing dark. Not Jayne, he knows without looking.

Mal’s voice is quiet in his ear. “You’re just trying too hard, that’s all.”

Hands slide down his arms to cover his hands, guiding them. Mal’s hair brushes against his cheek, tickling.

“That one,” Mal says. He points out the can on the far left. “Jayne’s right. It’s a slow squeeze.” His finger curls over Simon’s on the trigger. “Nice and easy.”

They take the shot together. The can goes flying, and the recoil pushes Simon gently against Mal’s body. Mal’s hands fall away, resting on Simon’s hips for a second.

“Nice shot,” Mal says.

Then he is gone, walking quickly back toward the ship and not stopping at the ramp.

Simon watches him go, breathing hard and wondering just what about that little display was supposed to say ‘no’ in any way at all.

“We still got some light left, Doc,” Jayne says in a neutral voice. “Try it again.”

Simon tries it again and misses again, worse this time. His hands are shaking. He takes a deep breath and waits a second until they steady.

Jayne points out the can next to the one Mal shot.

Simon aims, fires, and watches the can bounce off across the sand.

The next moment he is nearly knocked off his feet by Jayne’s hearty backslap, which, though no doubt well-intentioned, could probably qualify as assault in a court of law.

“Finally! Took you long enough,” Jayne says.

Simon hands Jayne the gun. His wrists ache from the recoil, and he rubs them.

“I think I’m done for tonight,” he says.

“Whatever. Let me know when you want to go again.” There is a pause. Jayne sounds like he has something on his mind.

“That wasn’t a bad plan you came up with on Ariel,” Jayne says.

“Thank you,” Simon replies warily. He has a feeling he doesn’t want to know where this is going.

Jayne is looking out across the dunes. “Mal ain’t gonna go after Niska. And Niska ain’t ever gonna leave us alone now. There won’t be no buying anyone back next time. Next time, I figure it’ll be all of us.”

“What are saying, Jayne?” he asks, half against his will.

“Reckon you know what I’m saying. If not–well, you’re supposed to be smart, right? Figure it out.”

Jayne saunters up the ramp and disappears inside.

Simon walks out into the desert, climbing the nearest dune and walking along its crest beside the line of cans he failed to hit. He sees the one he did get lying in the valley between this dune and the next. He skids down the loose sand and picks it up.

The bullet hole neatly pierces a picture of a tomato and comes out the other side, obliterating most of the nutritional information. The sand is warm from being baked all day under the sun, and the can has soaked up some of that warmth.

“Simon?”

He turns. Kaylee stands on the ridge behind him, her body outlined by the light from Serenity’s cargo bay. She climbs down to him, nearly falling as the sand slips beneath her feet.

He catches her arm, holding on until she is steady.

“Whew, thanks. Last thing I want is sand in my coveralls. It gets all sorts of places you wouldn’t think it could.” She smiles at him. “Captain said your lesson went pretty good.”

It is a question, and he nods and holds up the can for inspection.

“Clean through,” she says, smiling sweetly up at him. “There anything you can’t do, Doc?”

He can’t do this. No matter how much she wants him to, no matter how much easier it would be, he can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

Anger is boiling up inside him again. Mal sent her out here, knowing how she feels. There is an element of cruelty there of which Simon would have liked to believe Mal wasn’t capable. No, he chides himself. That’s not fair. It’s not cruelty, only thoughtlessness. If Simon played along, took advantage of her feelings, now that would be cruel.

“Well, I certainly can’t cook,” he says lightly. “And it’s my turn. Maybe you could help me out? I think if Jayne has to put up with my cooking after an hour of trying to drum the rudiments of marksmanship into me, we might have a homicide on our hands.”

She agrees cheerfully and starts up the dune, calling back, “Last one to the kitchen is a rotten egg!”

He tosses the can away and, after a second, tosses his dignity as well and races after her.

Grinning and breathless and feeling only slightly like a fool, he runs through the cargo bay and takes the steps by the infirmary two at a time. Kaylee disappears around the corner at the top. Simon puts on an extra burst of speed, determined at least to draw even with her–

–and slams into Mal, nearly knocking both of them over.

For a second he just tries to get his breath back, holding on tightly to Mal’s arms as hands grip his shoulders. Then he looks up and sees the expression on the other man’s face.

He was going to apologize, but he can’t even form words with Mal looking at him like that. His mouth goes dry, and he wets his lips. He is sure that Mal is going to kiss him, but neither of them moves. The hold on Simon’s shoulders tightens painfully.

Simon bears it, unwilling to step away, feeling his own fingers digging into Mal’s arms and tightening beyond his control. Mal opens his mouth, but can’t seem to get any words out.

Simon looks in his eyes and sees…longing. Want. Desire. Everything he has wanted to see there for so long.

It is too much, and Simon pulls him close, bringing their mouths together, hard. Clash of teeth, and he tastes blood from Mal’s split lip, and then strong arms come around him and Mal is moaning quietly into his mouth. Wet hot brush of tongue, and Mal’s lips are like velvet against his. He has Mal backed up against the wall before he realizes they’ve moved at all. A hand comes up to grip his hair as Mal closes teeth over his lip, so gentle, and sucks. Lets go only to enter his mouth again.

There is no warning when Mal breaks away. He wrenches free of Simon’s hands and slides away, still leaning against the wall for a moment and blinking, leaving Simon cold. Then he shuts his mouth with an audible click, does an about-face and marches off down the hall.

Simon watches until he is out of sight. Then he runs his hands through his hair and wipes at his mouth. Just in time. As he rounds the corner, Kaylee pops her head out of the kitchen.

“Hey there. Get lost or something?”

“Mal waylaid me in the hall. I want a rematch.” He produces a smile for her and is happy to hear his voice sounding perfectly normal, impossible as that seems.

“Oh, no,” she says, laughter in her eyes. “I don’t think so. You got to plan ahead for captain-interference on this boat. You ought to know that by now.”

“Yes,” he says, hearing his words come out just a shade less than bitter. “He is unexpected, isn’t he?”

“He’s never boring, our captain. That’s why we love him. Come on, let’s see what we’ve got for tonight.”

He lets her lead him off to explore the unexciting possibilities of protein, protein, and protein, but his mind is elsewhere, stuck on two thoughts.

The first is that he must have caused Mal some serious pain, slamming into him like that, and Mal won’t take painkillers without being nagged nearly to death.

The second… Mal is never boring. Never predictable. He isn’t like anyone else Simon has ever known. And yes, that is one reason Simon loves him. But it’s hardly the only one.

***

The next morning, when Inara takes her shuttle to return the dermal mender, Simon asks to accompany her.

“You sure that’s a good idea, Doc?” Mal butts in. “We don’t know much about the Alliance presence in Newstar.”

“There isn’t one,” Inara says. “The council has pointedly rejected offers of assistance and all but outright refused to have soldiers stationed there.”

Mal frowns. “I don’t remember this planet siding with the Independents.”

“They didn’t.” Inara smiles. “They sided with themselves. Newstar used to be a vacation spot for the wealthy, but since the terraforming started to fail they’ve been working hard to make it a tax haven. The councilor has been a driving force behind the change. Either way, a military presence would only be a hindrance. The rich don’t like their money or their privacy disturbed by the government.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” Mal says. “It don’t mean there’s nobody there who’d recognize Dr. Tam here and be happy to turn him in.”

Simon wordlessly hands Mal the print out of his arrest warrant, complete with photo–his graduation picture. Then he dons the sunglasses and coat that he last wore on Persephone.

Mal looks at the picture and back up at him. “You wouldn’t think it’d make such a difference. You look downright sinister, Doc.” He folds the warrant and hands it back. “All right, get going. Try not to get yourself picked up or set on fire this time.”

The trip is mostly silent. Inara is uncomfortable with him now, and Simon can’t blame her. He is uncomfortable with himself. He doesn’t want to know what Niska did to her, doesn’t want to know what Niska did to Mal, doesn’t want to know that now Jayne is apparently counting on him to come up with a plan to kill Niska–he doesn’t know how he got so embroiled in this, and he wants out. He also knows it is too late, especially considering what he is going into Newstar to purchase.

Inara drops him off at the edge of the city and goes on to see the councilor. Simon has four hours to find what he is looking for. He hopes it will be enough.

After more than half a year of restocking Serenity’s infirmary with whatever money Mal can spare after buying food and necessary replacement parts, Simon has a fair grasp of back alley deals and where to buy things you won’t find in the local shopping district.

By the time he finds a hint of what he needs, three hours have passed and he has bought so many drinks for so many people in so many bars that he feels he should be drunk himself, though he has had only mineral water.

The man in front of him is drinking something clear and bubbling, but it is not, Simon is relatively sure, mineral water. The man offered him some when he sat down and the smile that went with the offer would have been enough to make Simon decline even if it had been mineral water.

“So,” the man says, drawing the word out. “I hear you’re looking for something.”

“And I hear you can help me find it.”

“An auspicious meeting, then, assuming you heard right.” The man twists one of his rings around a sausage-like finger.

“Did I hear right?” Simon knows he shouldn’t be this direct, but he is running out of time.

The man shrugs massive shoulders. His chins wobble. “Maybe so, maybe no. Cost you a lot of credits, something like that. There could be consequences for something like that.”

“There is always the possibility of consequences in whatever we do.” Simon puts on a hard face and looks at his watch. “My time grows short. Can we do business or not?”

There is a moment of thick silence, and then the man nods shortly. “I’ve got what you need. If you can back up that attitude with cash, we won’t have a problem.”

Half an hour later Simon walks out with a package under his arm and a considerably lighter wallet. He makes the meeting with Inara just in time and sinks into the seat beside her, relieved when she asks no questions.

Back on Serenity he heads for his room and stuffs the plastic tube under his bed. As much as he wants to, he has no time to examine his purchase. The desert heat is lessening with evening, and he has to find Jayne. Time to shoot more cans. And then dinner. And then he promised River he would play a game with her, though the thought occurs that he should have asked what the game was first. He sighs. It will be hours yet before he gets to open that tube.

***

Simon takes two aspirin and leans against the exam table in the infirmary, rubbing his wrists. Jayne switched guns on him tonight, telling him he needed more ’stopping power.’ Simon suspects Jayne was just trying to get him to fall on his ass, which he very nearly did at the first shot. The recoil was five times what it was for the other–much smaller–gun, and his wrists feel floppy and boneless.

He closes his eyes and then snaps them open again as a hand closes over his arm.

“River.” He smiles, relaxing. “Is it time for our game?”

She takes his hand in both of hers, studying it. Light fingers trace the lines of his palm and then the veins in his wrist.

She looks up at him. “We’re already playing,” she says. “But it’s not a game.”

He tries to read the meaning from her eyes, but fails. Again. He sighs. “I’m sorry, mei mei. I don’t know what you mean.”

Her mouth tightens with frustration. “All’s fair,” she says. “All’s fair, but you can’t be Patroklos. He wouldn’t ask you to do that. He doesn’t know how it ends, Simon. You didn’t read him the ending.”

“River–”

She lets go of his hand and backs up to the door, looking around as if she is just now aware of her surroundings, of the cold steel and harsh light.

“You should have told him how it ends,” she says. Once last glance around the room and she steps out backward, turns and disappears up the stairs.

He sighs and lets her go. No game tonight, apparently.

An hour later, with a much calmer River tucked into bed in the room next to his, Simon locks his door.

He retrieves the plastic tube and pops off the cap. Turns it upside down and shakes. A sheaf of papers falls out.

Simon spreads out the blueprints to Niska’s skyplex on the floor and starts to make notes.


	5. The Empty Sky

She’s not really _aiming_ the gun at Simon, Mal tells himself. She’s just holding it, and it happens to be pointing in that direction because Simon’s talking to her. Because Simon has to play hero and try to talk her out of this when Mal’s _seen_ how damned unreasonable she is when the crazy mood is on her, when Simon _knows_ how stupid this is, or should know, _will_ know because Mal’s going to shove it down his throat just as soon as–-

He twists the gun out of her hand with relief that he won’t, can’t show. He pops the clip and checks it.

“Fully loaded, safety off. This here’s a recipe for unpleasantness.” He looks at Simon. “Does she understand that?”

“She understands,” River says. “She doesn’t comprehend.”

This once can’t she make sense? “Well, I’m glad we’ve made that distinction. No touching guns. Okay?”

“No touching.” She turns away, nearly running. Simon calls after her, but she doesn’t stop. “It’s getting very, very crowded!”

Mal takes a deep breath and turns to Simon. “Thought she was on the mend.”

“Her medications are erratic. There’s…there’s not one that her system can’t eventually break down, and–”

Simon’s ready to give him the girl’s whole case history here, so Mal cuts him off. “When I want a lot of medical jargon, I’ll talk to a doctor.”

“You are talking to a doctor.”

He forgets that sometimes. The doctor thing gets lost in everything else that Simon is. He’s talking to the man who could’ve died a few minutes ago. He’s talking to River’s brother. He’s talking to the guy who slammed him up against the wall and kissed him senseless– And now is so not the time to be thinking about that.

“Yeah, okay, my point is it could’ve been you she might have shot just then. The doctor, as you just made note of. And who exactly could fix you? Not nobody. We’re deep in space, corner of No and Where. You take extra care with her. ‘Cause we are very much alone out here.”

There. That was…calm. Reasonable. All the things he is trying so hard to be around Simon.

“She wasn’t going to shoot me. She wouldn’t do that.”

“I think maybe you need to face up to the fact that there’s times that girl don’t know what she’s doing.”

“She wouldn’t hurt me,” Simon repeats. He glances at the gun in Mal’s hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain. I should see to my sister now.”

Mal watches him go, feeling slightly ill with the aftermath of sudden fear coursing through him. He focuses on the gun in his hand and goes to look for Jayne.

*

After he takes some of his frustration out on Jayne, after Kaylee drops her bombshell on their heads, Mal watches Simon leave. Watches Kaylee go after him.

He’s been pushing them together since he started pushing Simon away. Up until just a few days ago Simon has seemed intent on the two of them going on as they always have, but Kaylee…

He didn’t want to hurt her. That wasn’t the plan. He just wanted to get Simon the hell away from him.

He waits a second or two and goes after them without knowing why. He catches up in the hall, just in time to hear Kaylee nearly pleading with Simon, just in time to see– And then Book walks past and stops the kiss before it starts.

Mal slumps against the wall, holding his head. It’s been weeks now. Weeks of watching Simon and Kaylee dance around each other, weeks in which he has tried with every waking breath not to touch Simon, not to get nearer than he has to, not to make things worse than they are. Funny how things keep right on getting worse without any contribution from him.

He can target the minute and second when Simon gave up on him.

Simon was sewing up his hand–kitchen accident, add five more stitches to the tally–and leaned across him to reach for the scissors.

It was on purpose, Mal is sure. They looked at each other, faces so close, Simon’s breath gentle on his cheek, across his mouth.

He didn’t weaken. Looked down, looked away, and didn’t kiss him. Even now he doesn’t know how he managed it. Even now he wants to be back there and– But he doesn’t get to do that. Not ever again.

And now Simon is looking to Kaylee, exactly as he was supposed to, and Mal isn’t sure he can stand it.

“Sir?”

He turns, startled and hoping it doesn’t show. “What?”

“Can I talk to you?” Zoe asks. “In private?”

He agrees, surprised but relieved. Something else to think about would be most welcome right now. In private turns out to be in his bunk.

“Got your husband’s permission for this?” he asks as she climbs down after him. “Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong impression, you coming down here.”

She crosses her arms and just looks at him.

“All right,” he sighs. “What’s on your mind?”

“I didn’t much like the doc or his sister when they came on board,” she says. “But there aren’t a whole lot of people I do like, so that won’t surprise you.”

“You got that right.”

She gives him a quelling look. “Don’t reckon you much liked them either.”

“Right again.”

“That was then. They’ve grown on all of us.”

“Yeah…?” He can’t guess yet where she’s going with this, but he’s fairly certain he won’t like it.

“What are you doing with Simon?”

He stares at her for a second. “Nothing!”

“Well, maybe that’s the problem then, ’cause any fool can see he wants you to.”

“Zoe!” Can’t believe she just said that. “This is none of your business!”

“When you’re acting like you’re acting, it is my business.”

“Oh, and how am I acting exactly?”

“Nervy. Jumpy. Thought it was maybe because of Niska, but it ain’t, is it.” The way she says it, it’s not a question. “This ain’t you, Captain. Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll shut up on the subject forever more.”

“You’re wrong,” he says at once.

“You’re lying, sir.”

Hell’s bells. He drops onto the bed, defeated. She knows him way too well.

“Why won’t you?” She sits beside him. “There’s got to be a reason.”

He sighs. “Whatever I touch turns to shit. You know that.”

“If you’re calling Serenity shit, I’m telling Kaylee on you.”

He manages a smile at that. “Serenity’s different. She’s…part of me.”

“And what about me?” Her voice is quiet and serious. “You calling me shit, then?”

“I fucked up your marriage but good without even knowing I was doing it.”

“Wash and I fucked up our marriage all on our own. You didn’t know because you weren’t doing anything. And I didn’t say my marriage. I said me.”

He glances over at her, just for a second. She is calm, waiting. Always the rock at his back. Always steady where he falters.

“You’re part of me, too,” he admits.

She accepts it easily. Maybe she already knew. “And Simon?” she asks.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Simon means to him or could mean to him. Doesn’t know what to do now. River– Mal had the shit scared out of him tonight by that girl, huge gun pointed right at her brother like she didn’t even know what it was. Fully loaded, safety off. One slip.

He doesn’t want her off the boat, but he’s not sure that’s sense talking and not just him wanting to keep Simon close. He can’t afford to have his feelings clouding things, and they are, and he can’t see clear any more, not where Simon is concerned. He wants to just ask Zoe straight out what to do, let her make the decision, but he can’t. He’s the captain.

“I don’t know,” is all he can say.

“You think you don’t deserve him.”

A short laugh escapes him. “I know I don’t deserve him.”

“And I don’t deserve Wash.”

He looks at her, surprised, and she is looking back at him, more serious than usual, which, for Zoe, is saying something. She goes on.

“After what we’ve done, we deserve all the bad the ‘verse has to throw at us. You and I both know that. But Wash don’t know that, and neither does the doc. I make Wash happy,” she says quietly. “And he does deserve that. Maybe you should be thinking about what you can do for Simon. Maybe this time it just ain’t about you.”

He can’t answer, but she doesn’t seem to expect him to. He watches her climb up the ladder and hears the door close behind her.

His mind is empty, all the well-worn thought tracks blasted clean. After a moment of mental quiet he stands and climbs up to the hall.

The plan was to look for Simon, but he stalls in the kitchen. Familiar things–chairs, cutting board, spice rack–are new to him and somehow threatening. His brain feels like it’s shorted out. He can’t go to Simon in this state. He might say anything.

Tea. Yes, that he can handle.

Water put on to boil, spoonful of tea leaves–Inara’s Silver Needle; he will have to confess later and pay her back–in the strainer.

Pour.

Wait while it steeps.

The first sip burns on the way down. Full taste, light and rich at the same time. Tastes the way he used to imagine rain ought to when he was a child. Filled up with sky.

He thinks of Simon. Of what Zoe said. Has he really been that stupid? That selfish?

He sits still, moving only his hand to tilt the cup to his mouth. After a time he gets up, on autopilot as much as his ship is right now, and walks back to his bunk.

On his bed, back against the wall, he finishes his tea and listens to Serenity.

There’s something…

He’s being paranoid.

There is nothing out here but them.

He waits, but the feeling doesn’t go away. Something wrong.

It won’t hurt to check. A quick tour of the ship, and then he can get some sleep.

He climbs up and gives the hall a quick glance. Nothing there, of course.

He rounds the corner. There’s nothing–

He can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and he hesitates just a second too long.

*

There is a voice. Fading in and out. Soft, dreamy words. None of them make any sense.

Mal gets his eyes open, and, as the room resolves around him, the words resolve into sentences, statements, and finally, meaning.

“You’re talking to Serenity. And, Early, Serenity is very unhappy.”

Things don’t always make sense for a while when he first comes around, but this is a little more weirdness than he’s used to coping with. He gets to his feet. There’s something wrong, and right now that’s all he can remember.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“I need you to do me a favor, Captain.”

River’s voice, definitely. Serenity has a voice, too, and it’s different. Professional, mechanical. He still dreams of it sometimes– _Jeo-shung yong-jur goo-jang. Jien-cha yong-chi gong yin._ Life support failure. Check oxygen levels immediately. Over and over again.

Things aren’t that bad this time. His ship isn’t dying. He grabs onto a pipe above his head for support and tries to think. What is it this time?

Oh, yeah.

“There was a guy. He was very blurry. You gotta be careful.” He stops for a moment, waiting for things to come clear, but they just don’t. “How come there’s a guy on board, and how come you’re all of a sudden the ship?”

“I know you have questions,” says River’s voice.

“That would be why I just asked them.” Although it doesn’t explain why he thinks she should have the answers.

“But there isn’t time, Captain. I need you to trust me.”

Really, this is too weird even for his life. That guy came out of _nowhere_ , and now the crazy girl is the one with the plan to save the day?

“Am I dreaming?” he asks, half hoping the answer will be yes.

“We all are.”

Oh, that’s helpful. Yes, cryptic bullshit is exactly what he needs right now, thank you so much.

“Don’t make faces.”

He catches himself looking around the room. River is not the damn ship.

“Listen, Captain. I have a plan.”

He listens.

He listens to River, and it’s a decent plan she’s come up with, but he also listens to the conversation coming from the bridge. River must have all the comms on Serenity engaged, because over and behind her voice he gets whispers, snatches of other voices. When she is silent, those voices come clear.

The man, Early, is talking about some troublesome midget, and Mal has to wonder again if this is a dream, but honestly most of his dreams are a lot more straight forward than this.

“It’s soon now,” says River’s voice. “Are you ready?”

“How do you know what this guy’s going to do?”

“I’m very close to him. He doesn’t even see it.”

“Okay, but–”

“Go now!”

Mal finds out that there’s still a part of him that can take orders. He’s up the ladder and around the corner so fast his aching head is literally spinning, and he has to lean against the wall for a second. Then it’s down to the cargo bay.

River’s voice echoes around him as he gets the suit on and steps into the airlock. It cuts out when he puts the on helmet, but then he turns on the comm unit, and it’s back. He can hear the bounty hunter, too, sounding scared. Just at the edge of hearing, he thinks he can make out Zoe’s voice as well and maybe Wash’s.

He’s listening, he realizes, for Simon, but Simon isn’t saying anything.

He opens the airlock door and steps out.

Sounds of his own breathing, magnified, and of River’s monologue.

“I’ll be your bounty, Jubal Early.”

Sounds of the crash and thud of one body hitting another. Of a shot.

Mal is frozen, still as space. He hears River scream.

He knows. There is no question in his mind.

Simon is dead, and it’s his fault. It’s a cold knowledge. No real emotion is attached to it.

Floating at Serenity’s side, anchored loosely by his grip on the outside of the airlock door, he gets a feeling of time speeded up, of the future to come.

They’ll send Simon’s body out into the black. Drifting in a cheap casket until some planet’s gravitational field picks him up, or a star swallows him whole.

Mal will go on without him, day after day, without seeing his face or feeling the brush of his hand as they pass in the corridor. Without ever seeing his smile again or hearing his voice.

The knowledge slots into place, and all he can feel is…empty. And so damned tired, because in the end it changes nothing.

He still has a job to do. His crew will still need him. Life will continue, and then, someday, it won’t.

That’s the way it is, and he can’t even manage to feel angry about it any more.

He blinks, and the stars jump.

He is suddenly aware of his pulse pounding in his ears, of the rasp of his breath. Aware, too, of a sound below the beat of his pulse. River’s voice.

“Can you hear me? He’s okay. Only in the leg, and he got up afterward. Jumped him again. Simon’s okay. Captain, can you hear me?”

It takes a second to get his voice working, but it sounds fine when he speaks. “I hear you.”

He wonders how long she’s been trying to tell him that.

“Outside now. On the ship. Hurry.”

He pushes himself upward, the hull skimming along beneath him. He drifts up and up, spots the bounty hunter by the hatch.

“You made the right move, darlin’,” the man says. “Best for you to go on with old Early.”

“You think so?” he says, voice perfectly calm and steady. “Some of us feel differently.”

It would be easier, more certain, to cut the air hose. He has a knife for that purpose strapped to his suit.

The push that sends the man spinning out into space isn’t what he had planned. Less certain. More cruel. The man arcs around the pulse wave generated by his ship’s engine, accelerating into the distance. It will be a slow death.

Mal watches him go and can find nothing to feel about that, either.

River floats down like dandelion fluff, reaching out to him. He takes her hands and draws her close. She smiles up at him, bright and blinding.

“Permission to come aboard?”

He can’t send her away now. Even if it were the right choice, his crew would skin him alive for the suggestion after that speech she gave. He wonders if that wasn’t part of her reason for giving it, but then he’s a suspicious bastard.

“You know, you ain’t quite right.”

He has the eeriest feeling when he says it, like it could just as easily be her saying it to him. Like maybe it is, and he doesn’t know it.

“It’s the popular theory.”

He smiles at her, and it doesn’t even feel forced. “Go on. Get in there. Give your brother a thrashing for messing up your plan.”

She pulls a face, rolls her eyes. “He takes so much looking after.”

Don’t he just, Mal is thinking. Don’t he just.

*

It is late, nearly morning by the clock.

Mal stands at the foot of the stairs by the infirmary. The only light is a dim glow from Book’s room.

Everyone has gone their separate ways, looking to get a few hours of rest before it’s time to get up. Even Jayne has gone back to bed. The man could sleep through anything, which makes Mal wonder how he’s stayed alive so long. Most mercenaries are not heavy sleepers.

Mal knows he should be in bed himself, but he gets as far as the top of the stairs before turning around and coming straight back down. He walks carefully, as if any step might set off a land mine.

Now he stands outside Simon’s door.

He barely looked at Simon after it was all over, never once caught his eye. Said hardly a word to him.

He slides the door open and closes it behind him.

He pulls a chair close and sits by Simon’s bed, watching his face by the light from the hall. Shadows built on shadows, just barely translated into form.

He remembers the moment when Simon forced him to run from that Alliance ship, to start the battle up again. It was the first time in years that anyone forced him to do anything, and he was ready to kill Simon for it, but… Wash called down to the infirmary when they were clear, and something inside Mal sang at the news that they’d gotten away with it. Let the Alliance humps eat their dust.

He thinks that was when he got this sliver of hope stuck under his skin, somewhere he couldn’t reach to pull it out. Not that he was aware of it back then. Didn’t really get it until he came back on board tonight and saw Simon’s eyes searching for his. He understood when he felt that emptiness in him filled up again. Simon, alive and warm and smiling at him, was more cause for hope than Mal has had in…a long time.

He slides out of the chair and kneels on the floor beside the bed, leaning close, taking Simon’s hand in his and letting his fingers close over the pulse point. Steady and strong. He brushes the hair back from Simon’s forehead and, after a second’s hesitation, kisses his temple.

He tries to picture himself making Simon happy, and it just doesn’t work. He’s never made anyone happy that he can remember, except when he’s handing out the bonuses or announcing shore leave.

It wouldn’t work, he tells himself. Things don’t work like that for me.

Why not?

The thought startles him. He’s never questioned it before.

Why not?

They just don’t, that’s all.

He stands, places Simon’s hand gently back on the bed, and walks to the door with every intention of leaving.

He stands there a minute, two minutes, staring at the translucent plastic panels, and then turns back. He settles into the chair again and stretches his legs out in front of him.

It won’t hurt to stay a while.


	6. No Quarter

Grim determination sets in as Simon watches Jayne distribute the cans. Mal understandably wouldn’t let him practice on the ship, and this is the first time he’s picked up a gun in almost a month. It was a long haul between the councilor’s planet and Ezarria, and he suspects he’s already lost what little skill he’d gained.

Jayne wanders back to stand behind Simon, well out of the line of fire. “Okay, Doc. Go for it.”

He lines up the barrel with the first can, corrects for the inevitable upwards jerk–

–and loses his concentration completely when a roaring whine announces the return of Zoe and Mal in the spare shuttle. It lands beside Serenity, the downdraft from its engines knocking over cans and scattering them across the rock. Simon coughs and rubs grit out of his eyes.

“Weird they didn’t dock it with the ship.” Jayne’s voice is too casual, and as he steps in front of Simon, his hand rests on his holster.

They wait in a silence that has suddenly become very tense.

Minutes pass without any sign of activity, and now that the dust has died down they can see there is no one at the controls.

“Go open the door,” Jayne says.

“Me?” The question gets away from him before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, you. I ain’t trusting you to cover me, so go on. Get.”

“Right,” Simon mutters.

He walks up to the shuttle, glancing back at Jayne, who motions him to stand to one side while he opens the door. Jayne is aiming straight for the door, and Simon has no problem with getting out of the way. He reaches for the latch and steps back as the door opens.

Nothing. No sound from within, no light, certainly no Mal and Zoe. His heart rate, calm through all of this, starts to pick up.

Jayne approaches, enters the shuttle gun first, and switches the lights on. Simon waits, hearing him move around inside and finally hearing his voice, muffled and unsettled-sounding.

“What the hell…”

Simon steps in cautiously and finds Jayne up in the cockpit.

“What?” Simon asks him. “What’s going on? How did the shuttle get here with no one to pilot it?”

Jayne gestures at a metal cube attached to the instrument panel.

“Preprogrammed autopilot. That ain’t no mystery. I was looking at that.”

He jerks his chin toward one of the chairs. There is a piece of paper lying on the seat, and Simon picks it up.

“I take what is owed to me,” Simon reads out loud, “with accumulated interest. Please do try to buy them back. I would gladly add to my collection.”

He looks up at Jayne, but Jayne is looking at the sheet of paper as if it’s going to reach out and bite him.

“You think…Niska?” Jayne asks.

“It seems likely.”

“Ta mah duh,” Jayne mutters. “Gorram idiots, getting themselves caught. What the ruttin’ hell am I supposed to do now?”

He jerks the paper out of Simon’s hands, and Simon can see the worry growing on his face. Simon supposes he should be thankful that Jayne’s first reaction isn’t to abandon Mal and Zoe and take Serenity for himself. Worry and confusion, if not helpful, aren’t going to make things more difficult, either. In fact, confusion from Jayne is good. It means he’ll be more willing to follow orders.

“I think,” Simon says slowly, “that you should ask everyone to assemble in the kitchen. I’ll be along in a few minutes. I need to get something from my room.”

“You got a plan or something?” The relief is clear on Jayne’s face.

“Yes. Or something.”

It wasn’t really a rescue mission he was planning, but it can be adapted.

It will have to be adapted, and it will have to work. He won’t consider anything else.

*

There is dead silence around the table when Simon has finished speaking.

He turns to Inara, whose eyes he has been avoiding since he entered the room. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It was the only thing I could come up with that had a genuine chance of success. Can you do it?”

She swallows, but her composure doesn’t falter. “Yes,” she says softly. “I think so. I think…he’ll be glad to let me dock.” She glances around the table at questioning faces. “He was a client once, a long time ago. Under another name.”

“You won’t even have to see him,” Simon promises, hoping to god he’s telling the truth. “You just have to dock, and I can get into the air vent. That’s all. Then you can take off.”

“He won’t– He won’t be suspicious? When I leave?”

He can see her trying to bring herself to offer to distract Niska. He can’t let her do that, not even for Mal.

“No. He’ll just think you changed your mind. That you’re scared.”

“He’ll be right,” she admits.

“It won’t just be you,” Wash mumbles.

Simon turns to him. “And the rest of it? Do you think you can do it?”

Wash nods thoughtfully, and his eyes are calmer than they have been since he heard the news.

“The trajectory’ll be trickier than last time. We’ll have to put some kind of, I don’t know, padding or something on the ship, so we don’t bump the station.” He looks at Simon. “I can do it.”

“I don’t see why it’s gotta be you, Doc,” Jayne says suddenly. “I ought to be the one going with Inara.”

“You won’t fit through the air vent.”

Book looks up from his study of the blueprints. “I’d fit, son. Be glad to do it.”

Regretfully, Simon shakes his head. He traces a path through the airshafts that run from the shuttle dock to Niska’s torture chamber, ending in a vent in the ceiling.

“At most I’ll have to shoot Niska and his torturer from a few feet above them, when they’re not expecting trouble. I can do that. You and Jayne and Wash will have the harder job. You’ll have to clear a path to the elevator.”

“From the hole you want us to cut in the bottom of the skyplex,” Book says, smiling slightly. “It occurs to me that you came up with this plan awfully fast.”

“Can you think of anything better?” Simons asks. Book holds his gaze for a second but makes no response. “Right. Then we’d better get going. Unless anyone sees any major flaws?”

“You’re going to die,” says a soft voice. “Just like I did.”

“River…” But she runs from the room, and he can’t go after her. He takes a deep breath and looks around. “Anyone else?”

No one has major flaws to point out, but there is enough discussion that it is almost half an hour before he can go and look for River. He checks her room, but she isn’t there.

“Simon?”

She is in his room, sitting on his bed, hugging her knees. He sits by her and pulls her into his arms.

“It’s all right, mei mei. It’s all right.” He rocks her back and forth as she hugs him tight.

There is nothing else to do. She doesn’t want him to go, and he’s going anyway.

*

He and Inara are in her shuttle on the way to Niska’s skyplex. There is something he has to ask her before they get there.

“Inara…about River…”

“I’ll do my best for her, Simon. We all will. But she needs you. Don’t let anything happen to you.”

She is right. River does need him, and he shouldn’t be doing this. He should never have allowed himself to become this involved, but he is, and it’s too late. He has to go. Leaving Mal to torture and death–impossible. As impossible as leaving River at the Academy was.

“Thank you.”

The words are inadequate, but they are all he can offer.

There is a beep, and Inara checks the consol. “They’re hailing us.”

He moves out of sight of the camera and watches as Inara composes her face and presses the receive button.

Inara goes through the preliminaries with some flunky and then asks if Viktor is still working for “Boris”–presumably the name Niska was going by when she encountered him.

“He’d remember me,” she says.

A minute later, Viktor appears on the screen. He inclines his head, a deep nod or an abbreviated bow.

“Inara Serra. I hadn’t expected to see you again.”

She smiles, and Simon could almost swear there is real warmth there.

“I hadn’t planned to come back, but…things change. I’d like the opportunity to speak with your employer. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to arrange that for me?”

Viktor isn’t smiling. “Ms. Serra, this isn’t really a good time–”

“It’s not the best time for me, either, Viktor.” She smiles sadly, intimately, and Simon watches Viktor’s face soften. “Times have been difficult. Boris did tell me to call upon him should I ever find myself…in distress.”

Niska’s actual words had been, “Perhaps circumstances will bring together again, yes? Right now, you think never to see me again, but desperation can drive us to many things. Perhaps it will even drive you back to me. I let you go now in the hope that we will meet again, and I will be able to truly know you.”

It had chilled Simon to hear her recite the words from memory. She didn’t know what Niska meant by ‘truly know you,’ and Simon hopes she never will.

Viktor glances off screen and then leans closer. “Ms. Serra, if you have any other options–”

“Would I be here, Viktor, if I had any other options?”

“No, ma’am. I guess you wouldn’t.” A pause. “You’re cleared to dock.”

“Thank you, Viktor.”

“Don’t thank me.”

The screen goes blank, and Inara sinks back into her chair, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Are you all right?” Simon asks.

“I’m…fine. I didn’t think it would be so hard.” Her hand smoothes over her hair, twitching a wayward strand into place. “Well, it’s done. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to think I’m desperate enough to come back to him. It’s a good thing Viktor still works for him. I might have had a hard time convincing anyone else.”

“You know this Viktor?”

“He’s Niska’s right-hand man. He takes care of the details while Niska looks at the big picture.” She looks away from Simon, out at the stars. “Afterwards…I was one of the details. He was very professional, and I appreciated that.”

Her tone makes it clear that the subject is closed, and a few seconds later the docking signal comes through.

“We’re here,” she says. “You’d better get ready.”

He stands on the chair to unlatch a panel in the ceiling. “Good luck,” he says.

“You, too.”

He pulls himself up and fastens the panel in place behind him. Less than a minute later he feels the docking clamps engage, pressure equalizing, air exchange beginning. The shuttle can stay self-contained, but on most ships and stations the air ducts will connect and replenish the air supply.

He crawls forward, the space lit only by seams of light from below where the panels are joined together. When he reaches the end of the shuttle, he pulls out his small flashlight and switches it on. The docking cycle is sixty seconds. He now has forty to get out into the skyplex before the guards can open up Inara’s shuttle. He told her to leave before that happened, no matter what. He hopes she will.

He puts the flashlight between his teeth and pops out the grate and the filter behind it, crawls through, replaces them.

That’s it. That simple. He is inside the skyplex. He closes his eyes for just a second and then starts moving right away because now would be a very bad time to admit that he is scared shitless.

Dark, dark goddamn tunnels, just big enough for him to crawl through, maybe big enough to turn around if he absolutely had to. Twenty feet down the tunnel he hears a click and a whir behind him as the shuttle is sealed off again.

His heart hammers in his chest, and he does his best to ignore it. There is only one way out now, and that is forward.

The metal walls of the duct have an unfortunate tendency to echo, and he moves slowly, as noiselessly as he can. He tastes dust and bile, and it is too warm. His knees hurt already. He wants to be back on Serenity.

Can’t stop. The fear just isn’t relevant. He was scared to death when he was trying to get River out of the Academy, too. Scared that any second could bring a call that she’d had an ‘accident,’ died in their hands, or a call from the police that no amount of bail money could fix, scared that he’d open that box and it would be empty, and he’d have lost his only chance to get her out. None of it mattered. It was just one logical step after another. Just like this.

First get to the torture chamber. Worry later about what would happen once he got there.

He comes to a fork in the duct. He knows he has to go left because he studied the blueprints until they were etched into his eyes, but he checks anyway.

He goes left.

Then right.

Then right again.

Then–dead end.

He pulls out the blueprints again with shaking hands. Sweat gathers at his back and drips down his sides. He traces out his path. He didn’t take a wrong turn. This is the right way. The blueprints are out of date.

He stares at the flat metal in front of him. Panic rises in his throat, and he bites it down.

Wiping sweat out of his eyes, he studies the blueprints again. He knew the route so well he almost didn’t bring them along.

He shuffles backwards to the last intersection and takes the other fork. Light appears in the duct, shining up from a grate. He creeps up to the edge and looks down.

Someone is looking back up at him.

He pulls back fast, reaching for the gun, but as his eyes process what he has just seen, he has to keep himself from laughing. He peers over the edge again.

Below him is a row of urinals, one being used by a man whose face is tipped upward, eyes closed in apparent enjoyment. As Simon watches, the man finishes his business and walks out.

Now, Simon tells himself, before you have a chance to think about it.

He pulls the grate out and hangs for a second by one hand as he gets the grate repositioned as well as he can. Then he drops to the floor and runs for the stalls–and makes it just in time. As he locks himself in, the door opens.

He can see feet, and an indistinct shape through the crack in the door.

A harsh voice says, “That you Kowalski?”

“No,” Simon answers. He waits, tense, not knowing what else he can do. If this man sounds the alarm…it’s all over. Maybe Mal or Jayne or Zoe could get through a whole station full of guards, but he knows he can’t.

“Who is that? Carmichael? Somebody better be covering your post, you dumb shit.”

For a second he blanks, can’t get a word out. Thinks suddenly, what would Jayne say? Yes, obviously Jayne wouldn’t say anything in this situation; he’d just break the man’s neck, but–

“It’s covered,” Simon calls back. “I’m trying to take a dump here, is that suddenly against the rules?”

“Well, you don’t have to take my head off. Christ, just asking a simple question here. If you _want_ Viktor breathing down your neck…”

“I said it was covered.”

There is deep sigh. “Fine, man. Hope so, for your sake. So, you seen Kowalski?”

“No.”

“Well, if you do, tell him I’m looking for him.” The feet retreat as the man keeps muttering. “Bunch of gorram kids, don’t know nothing about discipline…”

As soon as the door closes, Simon is standing on the toilet, reaching for the grate above him. Up in the air duct, he calms his breathing and checks the blueprints for the thousandth time, orienting himself.

This duct runs parallel to the one he started out in. It will take him longer to get where he’s going this way, and he doesn’t have that much time to spare.

He checks his watch and stares for a second. Half an hour. It _couldn’t_ have been half an hour already. He starts moving, fast.

He refuses to check again, just keeps going, hands slipping and knees aching, knowing he’s not going to make it. There’s just not enough time. He’s already supposed to _be_ there, supposed to blowing Niska’s head off right this second. Never going to make it, but he has to.

Light looms up ahead, reflecting off the top of the duct. He creeps forward and looks down.

He can see Mal on the opposite side of the room, being held back by one man while another rifles through a box on the floor.

A third man sits on the sofa–who the hell has a sofa in a torture chamber?–and this has to be Niska. He looks a bit different than he did in the photo, but the corpsified most definitely fits.

Simon can’t see Mal’s face, doesn’t know how badly he’s hurt or even if he’s conscious. He can’t shoot the man holding Mal. His aim isn’t that good. He reaches for the gun anyway, cursing to himself silently. He has to do something. He was counting on there only being one guard.

The man not holding Mal, Niska’s new torturer presumably, straightens up. He is holding a black tube with a triangular head.

Niska stands, moving a few steps closer to Mal. “You remember this, Mr. Reynolds? We were interrupted last time by your friends. So ill mannered. Not, I think, this time.”

Simon recognizes the device immediately, and as Mal starts to struggle, Simon brings up the gun, presses it to a hole in the grate, aims, fires.

It takes him a second to even realize what he’s done. He leans forward as the torturer falls to the ground and sees Mal elbowing the guard holding him, sees Niska going for a gun.

Simon aims for Niska, hoping Mal can take care of the other guard, but as he leans farther forward to get a better angle, the grate gives way under him.

He falls and hits the floor hard, pain shooting through his back. The gun flies out of his hand, and he scrambles after it, dazed. A foot comes down on his hand.

“Your friends are most resourceful, Mr. Reynolds, but–”

Simon shoves his hand up hard, grabbing hold of the only vital spot he can reach.

Niska’s voice cuts off in a hoarse shriek, and Simon yanks his leg, dumping him on the floor, reaching for the gun again–and this time he gets it.

Scrambling back to the wall, aiming with shaking hands, he finally gets to his feet. Niska is up, too.

“Very resourceful indeed,” Niska says through gritted teeth. He holds up his hands and kicks away the gun lying on the floor next to him. “Well, you go now, yes? I do nothing to stop you. And maybe next time…you join our game as well. Hm?”

Simon can see Niska’s face crease with nauseating good humor over the barrel of the gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he is aware of Mal still struggling with the guard. Mal can’t help him.

“Oh, come now. You would not shoot an old man. Unarmed, harmless… Surely not.”

Simon takes a step forward, then another, telling himself he wants to be sure he won’t miss.

“We are all civilized men here…”

He tunes Niska out, but it doesn’t help. An old man, backing away from him, offering no threat– The torturer dead on the floor, _dead_ because Simon killed him with no thought or– Dead. Because Simon killed him.

He knows he has to pull the trigger. He can’t leave Niska alive, or they’ll be going through this again in a week, a month, never knowing when, never knowing… But that man is dead on the floor, and Simon feels like he’s going to be sick. He’s frozen. His mind is empty, and Niska could walk up and pull the gun right out of his hands.

He remembers Mal telling him that someone would have to deal with Dobson, that it should be him, but Mal didn’t think he had the guts. He remembers aiming at Dobson, knowing Mal was right, that he wouldn’t be able to do it.

He prays for Niska to give him a reason, call for the guards, anything, any reason at all, but the old bastard is just _standing_ there, and time is passing, and they still have to find Zoe…

He’s about to give up, when a hand falls on his shoulder. His breath stops in his throat, and he tries to turn, sure that it’s the torturer, not dead after all, but there’s a hand now covering his own on the gun.

“Aim for me.” Mal’s voice is rough, and he is leaning on Simon heavily.

Simon has let the gun slip downward, but now he brings it up again, aiming between Niska’s eyes.

Mal’s finger slips over his own and pulls the trigger. Niska crumples to the floor, a red hole appearing in his forehead.

“Again,” Mal says, and Simon aims again.

Three more bullets, and Niska’s face doesn’t even look like a face any more.

“Okay,” Mal says. He breathes out in a sigh. “Okay.”

Mal’s hand falls away from the gun, and for a second Simon is supporting all of his weight, nearly crumpling to the floor under it. Then it’s just Mal’s hand on his shoulder again, holding tightly, but no more than that.

“We ought to get out of here,” Mal says.

“Where’s Zoe?”

“They took her back to the holding cell.” Mal coughs and wipes blood away from his eyes. “He was going to make her watch, but she just kept staring at him. You know that look she gets.”

“Like ‘You’re going to die a slow, painful death while I watch’?”

“That’s the one. I think it was creeping him out.”

“Where’s the holding cell?” Not far, he prays. Let it not be far. He can almost feel the second hand of his watch ticking away the time.

“Downstairs. They took us up in an elevator. We were blindfolded, but I think it’s in Niska’s office.”

“Can you walk? We don’t have much time.” He gets no response, and Mal’s gaze is wandering across the opposite wall, unseeing. “Mal?”

Blue eyes snap back to his, and Mal looks like he’s coming back from somewhere. “Simon? Are you here all by yourself?”

“They’re waiting for us downstairs. Are you all right?”

He was assuming Mal couldn’t be hurt too badly if he took out that guard, but maybe he was wrong. He runs his hands over Mal’s skull, finding a bump on the back, but no blood. He looks at Mal’s pupils, sees nothing abnormal. He holds up a finger.

“Can you follow this?”

Mal slaps his hand away. “I’m fine, just dizzy. Can’t see straight. They doped us with something. Wore off real fast with Zoe. Not so fast with me.”

“All right.” He studies Mal’s face, but Mal really does look all right. Beat up, bruised, cut, but the injuries appear superficial. “Come on. We should hurry.”

He nods jerkily and gets an arm around Simon’s shoulders. As they walk toward the door, Simon feels himself pulled momentarily tighter against Mal’s side.

“Sure am glad to see you,” Mal says.

Simon smiles to himself and covers Mal’s hand with his own. “Same here.”

The elevator is in Niska’s office. There is no call button, only a palm scanner.

“Shit,” Mal mutters.

Simon presses the gun into Mal’s hand and leans him up against the wall. Runs back to the torture chamber. He hears Mal calling after him as he picks up a cleaver from the selection of unpleasant knives now scattered across the floor by the struggle. He’s dealt with bodies before, he reminds himself.

He returns to find Mal squinting at the door, his aim wavering badly. Mal holds the gun out to him.

“Take it. Is that what I think it is?”

Simon takes the gun and gives him Niska’s hand in return.

Mal presses it to the scanner. The doors slide open, and Mal moves to toss the hand away.

“Don’t. We might need it later.”

Mal gives him an unreadable look, but steps into the elevator after him, complete with hand. “Downright sinister,” Simon hears him mutter.

“How far down?”

“Two levels,” Mal says.

The elevator beeps twice, and the doors open.

“Don’t fucking move, either of you!”

Simon turns to Mal, ignoring the ring of armed men. “I thought that room was soundproofed.”

“Far as I know, it is.”

“And the door was shut.”

“So how did they hear the shots? Got me.”

“Shots?” one of the guards says.

Simon looks at him, and it takes only a second to remember his face from the shuttle.

“What are you saying?” Viktor pulls Mal out and shoves him against the wall, hand around his throat. “Talk!”

Mal grins at him. “Your boss is dead, Viktor. It is Viktor, right? I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

Viktor’s face freezes, and Simon can see the grip on Mal’s neck ease fractionally. He figures this is his cue to do something.

The guards don’t seem to see him as a threat. Their weapons are trained on him, but all of them are watching Viktor and Mal. Simon reaches behind him. Wedged between railing and wall, where Mal stuck it before he was pulled out, is Niska’s hand.

“Viktor?” Simon waits until the man looks over at him. “Catch.”

Everyone takes a step back, and Viktor is staring in shock at what he has in his hands, and that’s enough. Mal slides down the wall, grabbing an assault rifle from the nearest guard, and Simon ducks back into the elevator. On the full automatic setting there isn’t much need to aim.

“Well,” Mal says. “They sure as hell heard that.”

They move down the hall as fast as Mal can manage, passing unmarked doors and finally peering around a corner. They can see Zoe behind a wall of glass, guarded by a single man. The guy is looking nervously up and down the hall every few seconds. Even from this far away Simon can see the sweat on his face.

“Looks a mite twitchy,” Mal says softly.

“Any ideas?”

Mal sighs. “Not a one.”

Simon takes a deep breath and calls out, “Hey, Kowalski, I could use some help here!”

Mal looks at him like he’s insane, and Simon would be prepared to admit that this might be the case.

After a pause they hear a voice call back uncertainly. “I’m not Kowalski. He’s up on–”

“Yeah, I give a fuck who you are. Just get over here. This thing’s heavy!”

“Carmichael?”

“If I drop it, I’m making sure Viktor knows why!”

Footsteps hurry toward them, and as the man rounds the corner Mal takes him out with one punch.

Mal looks up from the prone body to meet Simon’s eyes and grins. “Come on, Carmichael. We got some rescuing to do.”

Zoe is happy to see them, and Simon is even happier to hand over the gun.

Back the way they came there are shouts and the sound of running feet.

“Which way?” Mal asks. “And I hope to hell it ain’t back that way.”

“Forward. We’re close.”

Simon gets Mal’s arm around his shoulders, and Zoe brings up the rear. She hasn’t said a word since they got her out of the cell, but she’s definitely wearing the ‘going to kill you slow’ look.

Shots ring out ahead of them.

“Keep going,” Simon pants. “That’s them.”

He’s late, so late. He doesn’t even look at his watch. He doesn’t want to know how long they’ve been holding their position, or at what cost.

Twenty feet from the next corner, which ought to be the last. Ten. Five.

Someone barrels around the corner toward them. Mal swings the barrel of his weapon up, ready to shoot.

“Whoa! Hey!”

Simon knocks it away just in time, and bullets march across the wall.

“Hell of a greeting,” Jayne grumbles. “You’re late. I was coming to get you.”

“Jayne!”

Simon looks around, but it’s no one here who said that. It sounded like–

“Wash,” Zoe says. She accelerates past all of them and disappears around the corner.

Jayne and Mal look at each other and start forward, Simon still bracing Mal as well as he can.

“Don’t let me shoot anyone I’d regret shooting later,” Mal says quietly. “Still can’t see too good.”

As they turn the corner, Mal and Jayne both flatten themselves to opposite sides of the wall and start shooting. Simon can’t see anyone he recognizes, including Zoe. Jayne rolls a grenade toward the guards, gesturing for Simon and Mal to take cover.

The explosion clears a temporary path, and they run through smoke and burning bodies. Someone grabs Simon’s ankle as he passes, and he jerks away so hard that Mal ends up supporting him for a second. A grateful look is all he has time for. Once the smoke clears, the scene in front of them demands all their attention.

Wash is down, with Zoe at his side. She is firing at the approaching wall of armed men, but they are holding riot shields in front of them, and all she is doing is wasting bullets. Book is picking a few off with precise shots at feet and ankles, but there are too many, and they’re coming fast.

Simon can see the hole cut in the deck maybe ten feet beyond Wash and Zoe. It leads to Serenity and safety, but they aren’t going to make it before they’re cut off. The men aren’t firing now, but bullet holes cover the floor around the hole and lead up to where Wash is lying. They won’t be allowed to get any closer.

Then, as Zoe’s ammunition runs out, Simon hears a noise above the stomp of booted feet.

There is the sharp sound of glass breaking, a pop and a hiss, and now the guards are faltering as a thick purple smoke rises behind them.

“Ignore it,” one of the men barks. “Just a smoke grenade. Keep going.”

They keep going. One step, two steps, and then the first man falls.

“What the hell,” Mal mutters.

Another man is down, two, five, more than Simon can keep track of. The rest are looking wildly for an enemy they can’t find.

Mal nods to Jayne, and the three of them move cautiously forward. They hit the deck as a guard starts firing randomly before collapsing. The men are yelling unintelligibly, and the purple smoke is creeping forward.

They reach Wash and Zoe, and Jayne slings Wash over his shoulder. Mal takes another look at the confusion of falling men and roiling smoke.

“Run,” he says.

One eye on the guards, they run for the hole. Book is on point with his rifle aimed, but the few guards still standing don’t even seem to see them.

Jayne, with Wash, is the first back into the ship, then Zoe.

“Go,” Book says. “I’ll cover you.”

Mal jerks his head sharply to the hole. “Get down there.”

Book wavers, but obeys. Mal and Simon are left alone. Simon knows what they’re waiting for. He wonders if Mal does.

A space suited figure walks through the swirl of smoke and the tangle of still bodies. Mal must know because he doesn’t even bother to raise his gun.

River takes her helmet off and looks down at them. “Time to go home.”

“How did you–” Simon starts.

“Later,” Mal says. “In the ship. Now.”

River is first down the hole, and Simon goes next without argument. Mal seals the hatch behind them and turns to River.

“What was that stuff?”

“No touching guns,” River says solemnly.

Mal sighs. “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve taken that to heart, but it don’t answer my question.”

“Nalcyn gas, I think.” Simon waits for River’s nod before he continues. “We had the makings in the infirmary.”

“She could do that? Put that together?”

“It’s a simple formula. I’ve done it before by accident.”

“Put everyone to sleep,” River says. “Asleep on their plates. Mother said if it was soup they would have drowned.”

Mal looks at Simon with a raised eyebrow, and Simon can feel his face grow hot.

“A miscalculation in a chemical formula. During a dinner party.” He gives River a quelling glance. “I was only eleven.”

Mal snorts. “Gotta say, Doc, I don’t envy your folks.” He turns to River. “You go change out of that suit and put it back where you found it. I think our next talk’s going to be on the subject of going EVA without permission.”

Rivers looks up at him, smiling faintly. “You’re welcome, Captain.”

She heads off toward the cargo bay, and Simon turns to leave as well. He still wants to know what Mal seems to be overlooking, namely how River got behind those guards in the first place, but that will have to wait until later. He has at least one patient waiting for him, and he thinks Book might have been hit as well.

He gets only two steps before Mal’s hand closes on his arm, pulling him back hard.

“What?”

Mal’s grip on his arm eases, and his expression softens, and Simon finds himself expecting…something. He can’t say what.

“You shouldn’t have come,” is all Mal says. “You could’ve got killed.”

Simon has to close his eyes, just for a second. He wasn’t expecting any declarations, but…

“I had to.”

He sees something shift in Mal’s face, and fingers dig into his arm in a brief, convulsive clutch.

“Simon…”

He waits, and seconds stretch between them.

In the end, Mal drops his eyes and steps back.

“You’d better get going. You’ve got patients to see to.”

Simon nods numbly and turns away.

*

Simon has removed three bullets from Wash and one from Book. Book is back in his room, but Wash needs observation, so Simon is still in the infirmary, observing.

Mal came in an hour or so back, quiet and subdued, to have his wounds cleaned and bandaged. He stayed afterward, sitting quietly on the bench and finally falling asleep there.

Simon sits on a stool between Wash and Mal, watching over both of them. He is looking at Mal’s face, as troubled in sleep as in waking. He is starting to drift off himself.

He doesn’t notice that River is even in the room until she drops down to sit on the floor in front of him. She loops an arm around his leg, and he strokes her hair.

“It’s all right, mei mei. Everyone’s going to be fine.” An automatic reassurance, for she only comes to him like this when things are bad.

There is a long silence before she replies. “You died, didn’t you? Just like me.”

He thinks of the sickness he has been carrying inside him since he shot the torturer, and this time he knows what she means.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

“I know.” He can’t think of what else to say, and he is so tired.

“The death card signifies change.”

“Death card?”

“The hanged man is sacrifice. The star is hope. You got all of them, but they’re just cards. It doesn’t mean anything.” She turns to look up at him, and her face is twisted with distress. “It doesn’t mean anything, Simon, they’re just cards!” A tear spills onto her cheek. “Contradictions and faulty symbolism. I didn’t want you to die.”

He pulls her up to sit in his lap, wrapping her in his arms as if he can protect her. From anything.

He looks at Mal over the top of her head as she presses her face against his chest.

Two days, perhaps, until he can be sure Wash is out of danger. Two more days on Serenity.

He told Kaylee that River was more at home here than anywhere she’d ever been. He didn’t realize that the same was true for him.

He doesn’t want to leave.

He thinks about what would have happened to River if he hadn’t come back today. He can picture Inara taking on the responsibility of caring for her…but where? Not on Serenity. Without Mal, without Zoe, there could be no Serenity.

No real home for either of them, drifting from place to place. He knows Inara can barely pay the rent on her shuttle as it is. And River would get worse. Without her treatments, she’d get worse fast, sink into the chaos of her own mind and never come out again. It would only be a matter of time before she wandered off on her own, got picked up by the authorities, and then right back to the Alliance.

And that would be it. No one to save her. The rest of her life–however long that might last–spent in pain as they continued their experiments.

River has to be his first priority.

What he did today, however necessary, was selfish. It wasn’t just his own life he was risking; it was River’s.

The problem is that he would do it again, wouldn’t be able to help it. So he has to leave. Leave Serenity. Leave Mal. Leave these people, this new family behind.

He wonders how it can be so much harder to leave these people whom he has know only a few months than it was to leave his own parents.

“Doc?”

He looks up. Zoe is standing in the door, looking worried. Of course she’s worried. Her husband got shot. Simon puts his thoughts away for the moment. For now, he is still Serenity’s doctor. He has patients and responsibilities. For now.

“Is everything all right?” he asks her.

“There’s no pursuit.” She looks to Wash’s still form on the exam table. “Is he…?”

“He’ll have an uncomfortable time until the wounds heal, but it’s not life-threatening.”

She nods. “Thanks.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Don’t think it was in your job description to break into the skyplex and bust us out. Thanks for that, too.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You want to take a break, get some rest? I can watch these two.”

“You must need to sleep more than I do.”

“I slept in the cell.”

He gapes at her for a moment. “Of course,” he says at last. Of course she did. In Niska’s hands, with Mal upstairs being tortured, knowing she was going to be next… Unbelievable. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

“Hey, before you wake her,” Zoe says, nodding to River, who Simon is reasonably sure is not asleep at all. “How did she get behind those guys?”

River lifts her head. “Garbage hatch.” She looks at Simon. “Much more efficient. It was right there on your blueprints.”

He hears Zoe’s quiet laughter and sighs.

“You couldn’t have mentioned this a little sooner?”


	7. Off the Map

Mal is starting to feel like a voyeur. Honestly, he’d just wanted to get out of the infirmary; he hadn’t meant to overhear. But he did, and he is.

Simon and Kaylee are sitting together on the couch. The lights are down low, so it must be late. Mal doesn’t know how long he slept. He cherishes a faint hope that he is still dreaming. He doesn’t want this to be real.

“I’m leaving,” Simon tells Kaylee. “I mean, we both are. River and I. We have to.”

Kaylee is shaking her head, reaching out to take Simon’s hands. “No, Simon, no. You can’t… Why? We need you.”

“I have to.” Simon’s hands rest in Kaylee’s. He lets his head fall forward, and she bends down, too, their foreheads almost touching. “I thought it would be different. I thought…”

“What?” Kaylee asks softly.

“I suppose I thought we’d just be living here. Just sharing space, but it’s not like that. Everything spills over.”

Kaylee takes her hands away. “Do you hate it that much here? I… I thought you were at least getting used to it.”

“It’s not that,” Simon says at once. He takes her hand in both of his, and Mal can’t help thinking how much Simon has changed. When he first came on board, Simon never reached out to anyone. “I like it here. I do. But…it’s not the safest place. And none of you deserve to be saddled with our problems, either.”

“You’re one of us. Your problems are our problems.”

“It can’t be like that. It’s just… It’s not right.”

“I don’t want to you to leave.” She sounds as if she’s nearly in tears.

“And I don’t want to, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“Simon…” Kaylee tips her head, angling for a kiss, and Mal thinks she’ll get away with it, but at the last second Simon pulls back.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? I just don’t understand you at all.” She looks away. “If you’re leaving anyway, you could at least kiss me goodbye.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She looks back at him. “Well, you are, Simon Tam. This isn’t respect, this is just–”

“I’m in love with the captain.”

“Oh.” Both Kaylee and Mal say it at the same time, Mal’s lips forming the word silently as Kaylee speaks it for him.

“Oh,” she says again. “You… Mal?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.” Simon sighs. “It seems easier now.”

Mal can’t listen any more. If Kaylee’s going to cry over this, he doesn’t want to know. He lies back down on the bench, looking up at the ceiling. He hears footsteps, sees shapes by the door, and closes his eyes.

“I could stay with them,” Kaylee says.

“It’s all right. Zoe was with them for a while, and I got some sleep. I’m fine.” There is a pause. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t help it.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“You should stay. Everyone would miss you.”

“I can’t.”

“Just think about it. Please? Don’t decide before morning.”

He hears Simon sigh. “All right. In the morning. Sleep well.”

“Good night.”

Mal watches through slitted eyes as Simon sits on a stool between the bench and the exam table where Wash lies, unconscious or sedated. Simon spins slowly around and ends up facing Mal.

“You’re awake,” Simon says.

“Yeah.”

“You heard that, then?”

“That you’re leaving? Yeah, I heard.”

“Good. One less person to tell.”

“One less person to tell? That’s all you can say?”

“What did you want me to say? I’m leaving. Does it really matter how you found out?”

“You should have told me first.”

“Why?”

That stops him. There is no reason. No reason at all Simon should have told him first. He’d like there to be. There would have been if he’d had the guts to say something.

He thinks of sitting by Simon’s bed, watching him sleep the night that Early shot him. He should have stayed until Simon woke up. It wouldn’t have been so hard then. Now, he thinks it may be impossible. Simon’s eyes are so distant, with a touch of that arrogance that used to be his customary expression.

“Simon–”

He wants to look away, shrug his shoulders, let it go, but he can’t do that. He stares into Simon’s eyes with words caught in his throat, knowing this will be his last chance, suspecting it’s already too late.

There is silence between them for a long time, and Mal keeps expecting Simon to give up, lose patience, walk away, but he doesn’t.

“I don’t want you to go.” He’s not used to hearing himself sound like this, so quiet, so unsure. Not even when he’s scared. Especially not when he’s scared. “There wasn’t any reason you should’ve told me first. I never gave you one.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I wanted to.”

“Not enough, apparently.” The words hang in the air. Simon looks away for a second. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“No. It wasn’t. I know I made a mess of this. I just… I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I’m leaving, Mal.” Simon’s voice is sad. “It’s too late to fix it. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“I hate it when people say crap like that. There is no ‘meant to be.’ There’s only what you can make happen for yourself.”

“Then maybe we just couldn’t make this happen.”

Mal breathes out a laugh, and it tastes bitter. “You couldn’t make it happen all by yourself, that’s for sure.” He passes a hand over his battered face, aware of Simon’s waiting silence. “You were so patient. I never understood why you were so damned patient with me.”

Simon’s lips curve in a sad smile. “I thought it would be worth it. If you could…”

“Yeah. If I could. But I waited too long.” He sighs. “I thought it was a bad idea. Bad for both of us. For you, mostly.”

“I guessed that much.”

“You were right. I am an idiot.”

“I won’t disagree with you.” Simon stands and nods to Wash. “I should check on River. Can you watch him for a minute?”

“Sure.”

But Mal’s eyes are not on Wash. He’s watching Simon walk away from him, hands in his pockets, head slightly bent. He can’t shake the feeling, foolish as it is, that if he lets Simon go now, he’ll never see him again.

“Wait!” The word just slips out, and Mal is left standing without ever planning to get to his feet.

Simon turns back, frowning slightly. “Mal? What–”

Three quick steps and Mal stands in the doorway with Simon, gripping his shoulders. He finds himself looking into surprised blue eyes, feels his mouth opening with no idea what will come out.

Nothing does at first. He takes Simon’s hands in his own, feeling their warmth, feeling his grip returned.

“Don’t leave me,” he says.

“Mal…” Simon sounds shocked.

“I ought to keep my mouth shut and make it easy for you, but I can’t. I’m asking. Stay. Give me another chance.” He searches Simon’s eyes without knowing what he’s looking for. “I don’t know if I can do this, but I swear to you, I will try.”

“Mal…”

“Could you say something other than my name here? It ain’t imparting as much information as I’d like.”

Simon’s quick smile at that fades almost immediately. “I’m not leaving because of you.”

“Then why?”

“River.”

“But she’s been better, hasn’t she? Saved all our asses just last night.” He looks around at the darkened hall. “Or whenever it was.”

“She is. That’s not it.”

“Then what? You need something else for her medicine? We’ll get it.”

He can hear how desperate he sounds, and it makes him cringe inwardly. People take advantage of desperation. But not Simon, he reminds himself. Simon wouldn’t do that to him. To his surprise, he finds he actually believes that.

“Not medicine.” Mal opens his mouth again, but Simon cuts him off. “Look, it doesn’t matter, all right? It’s nothing you can fix. I have to go.”

“I won’t make it easy on you.”

Some warmth creeps into Simon’s eyes at last. “I’m not sure I’d want you to.” Mal feels Simon’s hands tighten around his own, and the next words are so quiet he barely catches them. “It would have hurt so much more to walk away thinking you never cared at all.”

“I did. I do. I wish…”

“What?”

“Wish I’d done this right from the beginning.”

Zoe was right. He shouldn’t have been worrying about what he deserved; he should have been worrying about what Simon deserved. Maybe, for that at least, it’s not too late. If Simon doesn’t hate him after all this, maybe it’s not too late at all.

Hope. Simon has always brought him hope.

“We’ll be on Persephone in two days.” He watches Simon’s face carefully. “Let me take you to dinner.”

Simon’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment. Mal can see the thoughts as they flicker across his face.

“Like…on a date?”

“Yeah. I’ll wear a suit and try not to be an asshole.”

“A date?” Simon is staring at him.

“A date. Flowers, candles, crap like that. Come on, Simon, I know you’re familiar with the concept.”

“But…you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re you!” Simon stutters a bit. “I, I’m sorry, Mal, I just can’t picture it. I would have been willing to bet you’d never so much as bought a girl flowers in your entire life. Or a guy,” he adds quickly.

“Well, you’d be right there. And you can expect me to make a mess of it, I’ll warn you right now. First time and all. But I’ll try.”

Simon tilts his head. “First time?”

“It’s a complicated business,” Mal says seriously. “Choosing flowers, getting the suit pressed, not to mention getting into the damned thing, which I can tell you I ain’t looking forward to. Talking to snooty waiters and getting reservations. Never was anyone I’d go to all that trouble for. Never anyone but you.”

Simon’s eyes are suspiciously bright. He blinks and looks away. “You don’t have to wear the suit.”

“Oh, no. If I’m going to do this, I’ll do it right.”

“I really don’t need flowers.”

Mal lets go of Simon’s hands to tip his face up, stroking a thumb over one flushed cheek.

“Maybe I need to buy them for you,” he says quietly. “Is that a yes?”

Simon steps in close and leans toward him. “Yes.”

The relief is a physical thing, spreading through Mal’s body in warm, calming tendrils until he is looking at Simon with what has to be the sappiest smile he’s ever had on his face.

He’d like to kiss Simon now, possibly never stop, but it feels too presumptuous. He takes Simon’s hands again instead, brushing his lips across the back of each. Then Simon pulls one hand away to tug on Mal’s shoulder, pulling him nearer. Simon tips his face up, and Mal leans down, accepting the clear invitation, nearly close enough now to–

“Um, before you two go any further,” Wash croaks, “thought you might like to know I’m kind of awake here.”

Simon starts a little, but Mal rests a hand at his waist, keeping him close.

“Wash?”

“Yeah, Mal?”

“Shut up.”

Simon is looking at him with mixed horror and amusement, and Mal can feel his own face growing hot. He ignores it. Simon’s breath shudders across his mouth as their lips meet. Mal closes his eyes for a second. It’s been too long.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Wash says. “If I could move my hands, I’d applaud. Doc, why can’t I move my hands?”

“The anesthetic sometimes has a paralytic effect when you first wake up–”

Mal kisses him again, unable to resist.

“It…ah…”

“The anesthetic,” Wash prompts.

“Should wear off in a few minutes,” Simon finishes breathlessly.

“So you two are going on a date, huh? That’s nice. I remember my first date with Zoe.”

“Wash, did I not tell you to shut up?”

“She was so beautiful, had on this slinky dress…or no, she didn’t, that was just this dream I was having. Green and slinky. Spaghetti straps. Mmm…”

“Wash–”

“With her hair all piled up and her neck bare…”

Mal looks at Simon. “Can’t you dope him again or something?”

*

Mal is sitting in the pilot’s seat on the bridge, staring into the black. Zoe comes in and sits beside him.

“I hear you asked him out,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Hard to believe.”

Mal snorts. “You’re telling me.”

“I even heard tell there’s going to be flowers involved.”

“That husband of yours has a big mouth. Figure there’s anyone on this boat he hasn’t told yet?”

“Well…the preacher’s still sleeping, so I’d guess he’s still in the dark. Probably.”

“Jayne, too, huh?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Jayne, too,” Zoe says with unpardonable enjoyment.

“Wonderful.”

He can just imagine the ribbing he’s going to take for this from Jayne–from everyone, but it bugs him more from Jayne. Maybe because Jayne’s the only one on the ship he couldn’t beat the crap out of if he decided he really wanted to.

“Can’t ever go smooth, can it?” he asks the stars.

“My man’s a lot nicer than you are, Captain. He won’t make you suffer near as much as you did when he was after me.”

Funny how that reassurance came out sounding so much like a threat.

Mal sighs. “You’re just enjoying the hell out of this, aren’t you? No pity at all.”

“Wouldn’t have lasted long around you if I was a soft touch.”

“I’m not that bad,” he grumbles, appalled to hear it come out sounding like a question.

“Not for me to judge,” Zoe says. “Reckon that’s the doc’s job now.”

Mal closes his eyes and swears under his breath. Two days until they get to Persephone and already he feels just about sick with nerves. He doesn’t need the thought of Simon passing judgment on his sorry life thrown into the mix.

“What kind of flowers?” Zoe asks suddenly.

He glances over at her, but she gives every indication of being serious.

“Since when do you care about that stuff?”

“What stuff is that?”

“Girl stuff,” he says without thinking.

She just looks at him.

“Is it too late to take that back?”

“You don’t screw up small, do you, sir?”

He rubs his eyes and looks out at the stars again. “You know what I meant. Flowers. Slinky dresses, green or otherwise.”

“Green?” she asks warily.

“My life ain’t the only thing Wash can’t keep it shut about.”

“That was pretty smug for a guy who doesn’t know what kind of flowers to buy his boyfriend.”

Boyfriend? _Boyfriend?_

He knows he’s gaping, but doesn’t quite know how to stop. Zoe is chuckling quietly, and that doesn’t help.

At last, he regains the power of speech and puts her straight about one thing at least.

“I do too know what kind of gorram flowers I’m getting him.”

She snorts. “Nice comeback, sir.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“Same to you,” she says cheerfully.

There is silence for a moment while Mal stews in his embarrassment.

“Well? Are you going to tell me?” Zoe asks, finally.

“White roses,” he mutters, blushing furiously and cursing Zoe, Wash, Simon, and himself impartially.

He gets no reply and after a second risks a glance at Zoe’s face. She is staring at him.

“What?”

“My god,” she says. “You’re in love with that boy.”

“ _What?_ Where do you get that from?”

“White roses,” she says flatly. “You’ve thought about it. You, Malcolm Reynolds. You’ve actually thought about what kind of…” She shakes her head. “And I thought Jayne buying apples for everyone was mind-blowing.”

Mal sinks further into his chair.

“It’ll get easier,” Zoe offers.

Mal guesses he must look pretty pathetic if she’s trying to make him feel better instead of enjoying his suffering.

“He’s planning to leave.”

“Never happen,” she says immediately.

“Yeah?” Mal asks bleakly. “Why’s that?”

“He fits here. Just like the rest of your freaks. We all fit here, and we don’t fit nowhere else.”

“Freaks is harsh. Especially considering you’re one of them.”

“Think about the people on this boat, and then tell me freaks is too harsh.”

“Didn’t say _too_ harsh. We are talking about Jayne here.”

“And my husband.”

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“Only because I got there first.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“Well?”

“Maybe you’re right,” he says.

“He’s not going anywhere.”

They both fall silent, watching the stars as the ship creeps through space. Persephone gets closer one slow mile at a time.


	8. Seven Seeds

It is the evening of their first day on Persephone, and Simon is doing what he has been doing for the past two days–hiding in his room. The teasing has been mostly good natured, and he suspects he is taking it better than Mal is, but if he has to hear one more comment from Jayne about making the captain a much better wife than ‘that little whore Saffron’ did, he is going to say something regrettable.

So he’s hiding in his room, reading. Pretending to read. He is waiting for Mal and hasn’t, in fact, turned a page for the last hour. When the knock finally comes, he almost jumps.

“Come in.”

Mal steps inside, wearing the same awful suit he wore to that party the last time they were on Persephone. It’s nearly as bad as Kaylee’s dress was, and Simon had uncharitable thoughts about both the suit and the man wearing it at the time.

Now, though… There’s something about the combination of Mal’s awkward stance, the sheer tackiness of the tie, and the anxiety that Mal isn’t even trying to conceal.

“You really haven’t done this before, have you?”

“Nope.” Mal’s eyes flick around the room and come to rest in the vicinity of Simon’s shoes. “Got you these.”

Mal thrusts a bunch of white roses toward him, and Simon takes them slowly. He runs his hand over them, the cool velvet feel of the petals tickling his palm.

“My mother used to grow these.” At least his mother’s gardener did, and he remembers his mother, in long gloves to protect her arms from the thorns, choosing which blooms would grace their dinner table. “They were her favorites.”

He raises his eyes from the roses to find Mal looking at him.

“You like them?”

It should be funny, the worry in Mal’s voice over a bunch of flowers. Jayne, to pick a name at random, would find it hilarious. Simon feels only a wash of tenderness so strong he has to look away for a moment.

He buries his face against the cool blossoms, drowning in their scent.

“They’re lovely,” he says. “Thank you.”

“They ought to be. They cost enough.”

Simon’s mouth twitches in an aborted smile. That is the Mal he’s come to know and love.

“You shouldn’t have wasted your money.”

Mal blinks. “It wasn’t wasted.” He blows out a breath, shaking his head once, sharply. “Shit, Simon, I’m sorry. I did tell you I wouldn’t be any good at this. Guess I might be a bit on edge.”

Oh, sure. Just a bit.

“Maybe we can do something about that.”

Mal smiles a little as Simon steps closer. “What, you gonna give me a tranq or something?”

“Better.”

The kiss is better. Maybe better than any that went before it. Those always had the flavor of despair and desperation to Simon, but this is slow and peaceful. The scent of roses drifts up from the bouquet crushed between them.

Mal looks at him as they part, his hand brushing down Simon’s cheek to rest on his neck for a moment. He opens his mouth and closes it again quickly, glancing away.

“Nice,” Mal says, at last. “Do that for all your patients?”

“What was that you said about trying not to be an asshole?”

Mal sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Sad part is, I am trying. This might go smoother if you just ignore everything that comes out of my mouth until we’re off the ship. They’re all waiting for us in the cargo bay, you know.”

He hadn’t known that, but he should have expected it. He smiles up at Mal and sets the roses aside. Mal really is on edge, and that Simon didn’t expect. Now is probably not the time to go searching for a vase, or even to get a glass of water.

“Let’s go run the gauntlet, then.”

Simon pulls on his jacket and lets himself be steered out of his room by Mal’s light touch on his back.

Most of the crew seems to be innocently employed in the cargo bay as they pass through. Wash looks up, grinning.

“Hey, Doc, you have him back by ten, you hear? He gets into all sorts of trouble if you let him stay out too late. Frequenting seedy establishments and such.”

Jayne snickers. “Yeah. And you’re gonna call if you decide to shack up somewhere for the night, right? ‘Cause you know we’d worry.”

Simon sees Zoe turn away, hand covering her mouth, and looks at Mal in time to catch the evil look he’s throwing her.

“You two have fun now!” Kaylee calls after them.

Then they are outside under a darkening sky, fading to twilight over buildings tall enough to hide the sunset. After growing up in the Core, Simon thinks he shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable surrounded by steel and concrete and carbon polymer, but as the buildings loom like cliffs on either side of them he finds himself missing the fringe worlds. Out there you can see to the horizon, and somewhere along the way he got used to that.

“Where are we going?” he asks Mal, trying to distract himself from absurd claustrophobia, a sense of pressure he never has aboard the ship, though he is far more shut in there.

Mal gestures ahead of them at what is presumably a restaurant of some kind. Greasy smoke streams from the stovepipe, and greasy meat rotates in the window. “Harga’s House of Ribs,” he says.

“You’re not serious.”

“No, unfortunately I’m not. Some fancy place. Not far from here.”

“Do you think you could be a bit more specific?”

He gets no answer. “Mal?”

Mal is looking around at the shops that line the street, ignoring him.

“Mal?”

“What?”

“The restaurant?”

Mal stops and looks around once more and then looks back at Simon. “Think I kind of forgot the name.”

“The name of the restaurant.”

“Yeah.”

“At which you made reservations, presumably just earlier today.”

“That would be the one.”

“I see.” Somehow Simon keeps himself from laughing at the sheepish look on Mal’s face. “Why don’t we just walk for a while? Maybe you’ll recognize it.”

Mal sighs. “Yeah.”

They slide back into the crowd of evening shoppers. After a moment, Simon feels Mal’s hand at the small of his back. He smiles at the touch and moves nearer. He thinks abruptly of how they must look to the people around them: a couple. Happy together. Maybe even in love. He looks down at the dirty pavement and wonders where he and River will go tomorrow, if he will walk down this same street with a guiding hand on her back and what these same people will think of them.

The longer they walk, the more the crowd thins. By the time they reach a small park, the sky is dark and flecked with stars and they are nearly alone. The park isn’t that far from where they started, but they have covered the surrounding area for several blocks in every direction.

Mal has shown no signs of recognizing anything at all, and Simon is just as glad. The walk, the people, the sights have, for the most part, kept him from thinking too much. And, when he considers it, the thought of sitting across a table from Mal and watching him fidget for an hour does not appeal. This is better.

They wander toward a small river and turn onto the path that runs beside it. The path runs across a bridge and Mal stops in the middle of it, leaning against the balustrade. Simon does the same, and Mal’s hand settles over his. He watches the dark water rushing past beneath them.

“I think we’ve missed the reservations,” Mal says finally.

“Harga’s House of Ribs it is, then.”

He hears Mal’s snort of laughter. “You sure about that, Doc? Might be more than you want to get into.”

“As long as none of the ribs belonged to anything named Fluffy or Spot, I’ll be fine.”

They straighten up, facing each other, and Mal’s smile gentles as he looks at Simon. “This was supposed to be…” He shrugs.

“Supposed to be is seldom what is.”

Supposed to be. River safe at home and stunning the universe with her genius, their father proud of them both, Simon working at the hospital, doing what he’d planned to do all his life; this is the way it was supposed to be.

It all comes back in a rush, and he has to turn away, suddenly blinking back tears. Is there something, he asks silently, that I did to deserve all this? I don’t remember doing anything so wrong.

Mal’s arms come around his waist, holding him close, and Mal’s chin rests on his shoulder. The words spoken in his ear are quiet and halting.

“Sometimes…it ain’t so bad. Even if it’s not quite what we thought it would be. You know, life. Sometimes it turns out okay.”

Mal’s body is warm and solid behind him, hair just brushing Simon’s temple, and right now, for this one moment, everything is okay. He leans back into the embrace and tries not to think about tomorrow.

*

After picking up a large greasy bag, they settle on the grass next to the river. Mal pulls out a candle and lights it.

“Where did that come from?”

“Same place the ribs did,” Mal says.

“You stole it from one of the tables, didn’t you.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t have to ask.

Mal grins. “Borrowed. I’ll return it on the way back, promise.”

Simon can’t help smiling back. “So, we’ve got the flowers and the candles–”

“Candle.”

“Right. Does your concept of a proper date include anything else that you’d like to warn me about in advance?”

“We’ll see,” Mal says, giving him a look that he doesn’t quite know how to interpret.

They eat in near silence, the greenery and the sound of water muffling the noise of the city. Simon is trying to clean himself up with a napkin the consistency of newspaper when Mal catches his hand.

Simon looks at him inquiringly and stops breathing as Mal smiles at him and takes one finger in his mouth, licking and sucking it clean. Then he goes on to the next.

By the time he’s done, Simon’s resistance is completely shot, and he makes no protest when he is rolled to the ground. Mal cradles his head with one hand, the other pulling at his shirt. The kiss tastes like barbeque sauce and cheap wine, and Simon can’t get enough of it. Mal’s hand is hot on the skin of his stomach.

“Well, well, well,” says a voice above them. “Isn’t this cozy.”

Mal freezes above him. Simon knows that voice. It goes with a bad suit and a worse hat.

Mal rolls off and sits up. “Badger. Got a job for me, or should I just shoot you where you stand?”

“Got a job, but not for you. You are the job. Got a guy wants to meet with you. Hired me and my boys to make sure you get there.”

“And you came to hand deliver the engraved invitation?” Simon says before he can stop himself. “I wasn’t aware you were running a messenger service. What are your rates?”

Badger looks confused for a second and then turns back to Mal. “Boy’s got a mouth on him. Is that why you keep him around?”

Mal leans back on his hands. “Bet I could kick you in the nuts from here before your goons could shoot me.”

“Goons?” Simon asks. He doesn’t see anyone but the three of them.

“Oh, Badger always has goons, don’t you, Badger?”

Badger smiles. “Come on out, boys.”

The boys in question are both older than Mal and much better armed, especially after one of them takes Mal’s gun.

“Up,” Badger says. “Time for your meeting.”

Simon looks at Mal, who nods. They both stand, and Simon picks up the bag and the candle.

“Leave that fei-oo. Come on.”

“Littering is against the law,” Simon says mildly.

Mal gives him an odd look, but goes along with it. “And you know what decent law-abiding folk we are.”

“Fine,” Badger snarls. “Bring it then. We’re gonna be late.”

Mal and Simon fall in side by side, Badger in front, the goons in back.

“He looks nervous,” Simon says, loudly enough for Badger to hear.

“He does at that. Wonder what he’s got to be nervous about.”

“I’d say he’s afraid.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mal says conversationally. “Of what?”

“Either you or who we’re going to see.”

Badger spins around and points a finger at both of them. “Shut it, both of you! He didn’t say I had to bring you intact.”

Simon leans in close to Mal as they start walking again. “It’s too much to hope that he’s afraid of you, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Do you have any idea who we’re going to see?”

“Nope.”

They are starting to walk through streets that are more and more empty of people now, and more full of garbage. Empty bottles clink against each other, pushed by the wind funneled between the buildings. More of the streetlights are broken here, and windows as well.

Mal nods toward the candle Simon is carrying. “Did you have a plan for that? ‘Cause I’m thinking now would be a good time.”

Simon drops the heavy glass votive in Mal’s coat pocket. “You’re still returning it. I can take you being a thief, but not a petty thief.”

“No plan, huh?”

“You’re the captain here.”

“Man insists on taking along a candle and a bag full of pig bones, I’m inclined to think he’s got some use for them.”

“I didn’t want to leave them in the park,” Simon mumbles. Mal gives him a questioning look. “Look, the planets you’re used to, you can dump a _body_ and no one notices. On Osiris you couldn’t drop a candy wrapper without being picked up two minutes later and fined five hundred credits for littering.”

Mal stares at him for a second and then turns his face away, shoulders shaking. Simon smacks his arm.

“Jerk. It was all those surveillance cameras. They always made me feel…uncomfortable somehow.”

Mal gets himself under control enough to say, “Guess they would, especially now,” before being overwhelmed by silent laughter again.

Simon would like to respond that he’s hardly the only wanted man around here, but mentioning that he has a bounty on his head in front of Badger strikes him as a bad idea.

He ignores Mal and looks up at the sky. No cameras here, and that is a relief. All the Core planets have them. When he was a child and asked what those black cubes were that they saw everywhere, his father had told him, had said they were there to keep everyone safe, but Simon had been appalled. He’d refused to leave the house for an entire week.

The feeling of horror at someone watching his every move never entirely faded, but he didn’t realize how much he’d hated it until he looked for them on Persephone–he always looked, had to know where they were–and saw none.

A hand on his shoulder jerks him to a halt at the same time that Badger says, “This is it, gentlemen.”

Simon shrugs off the goon’s hand and follows Mal through the door Badger is holding open. It shuts behind them with a thud. The lights come up and reveal a man sitting at a table.

The man nods to them. “Captain Reynolds.”

“Viktor.” Mal raises an eyebrow. “Kind of thought I killed you.”

“I am resilient. One has to be to last as long as I did with Mr. Niska.”

“Resilient maybe, but not too bright. Two of us, one of you. Badger returned my gun before he let us in here. I didn’t offer him money or anything. I think he just doesn’t like you.”

“I told him to, in fact. Please sit down, Captain. And your…friend, too, of course.” He nods to Simon. “Hard to forget a man who throws body parts at you, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Simon,” Mal answers for him.

“Simon…?”

“Just Simon.”

“I see.” Viktor smiles thinly. “And what does Just Simon do on your ship, Captain?”

“He’s our cook,” Mal says, straight-faced. “Damn good one, too.”

Mal sits across from Viktor, and Simon does the same.

“I see. If you don’t want him in on this, I can have Badger take him back to your ship.”

“Since I don’t trust Badger as far as I could throw him, I think I’ll pass on that.”

“Very wise of you. Then let’s get down to business. You killed my employer.”

“Yup.”

“I’ve taken over from him. What are your intentions toward me?”

“Well, I ain’t planning to make an honest man of you, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

Viktor taps his fingers on the table, looking at the opposite wall. He speaks slowly, as if choosing his words one at a time. “Everything I hear about you tells me you are a decent man, Captain, and there are few enough of those in your profession. I’m asking you outright because I think you’ll give me a straight answer–are you planning to kill me as well?”

Simon has been trying to look around surreptitiously, to see if there’s any way out of here other than the door Badger and his goons are no doubt guarding. He looks back to Viktor at the question, but as he does, he catches movement in the shadows. Mal was wrong. They are not alone here. Viktor could kill them any time he wants to, which means there must be some reason why he doesn’t want to.

Simon looks first at Mal, who still hasn’t answered, and then across the table. “You have a job for us.”

Viktor glances at him and then back to Mal. “Your cook’s pretty quick on the uptake, Captain.”

“If you’re not looking to torture me, then I’m not looking to kill you. But as I recall, the last job I took with your bunch nearly punched my ticket for good. Doesn’t incline me hook up with you again.”

Viktor’s mouth tightens at the mention of torture, and he speaks without meeting Mal’s eyes.

“Toward the end, Mr. Niska ran his business primarily to give him fodder and excuse for his…hobby. I have no interest in torture, Captain, and no interest in setting you up to do a job I know you’ll feel compelled to back out of.”

Simon has wondered before if Niska hadn’t intended Mal to return the medicine all along. He could easily have found someone else for a job like that. Someone not so decent.

“Okay,” Mal says slowly. “Supposing I believe you, it still don’t mean I’d trust any job you offer me. I killed your boss.”

Viktor shrugs. “You just happened to get to him first. I could see it coming even if he couldn’t. I’m not interested in revenge, Captain. I’m interested in business. I hear you knocked over that hospital on Ariel. Impressive work.”

“I won’t work on the Core planets. That was an exception I don’t plan to make twice.”

“It’s not in the Core. It’s on Eos, and it pays fifty thousand, and that’s all I can tell you unless you agree to take it.”

There aren’t little cartoon dollar signs in Mal’s eyes, but Simon is thinking that there might as well be. He also thinks it’s a good thing Jayne’s not here. The idea of fifty thousand credits would just get him overexcited, and he’d probably shoot someone out of sheer exuberance.

“Well now,” Mal says, calming down a bit, “I’d have to be pretty stupid to take a job that pays that kind of money without knowing the first thing about it.”

“Maybe. Never said I thought you were the smartest guy in the ‘verse, Captain. I do think you’re the man for the job, though. Think about it. It’s nothing you’ll have a problem with. You might even approve.” Viktor stands. “If there’s one thing working for Mr. Niska taught me, it’s how to match the job to the man. I’ll send Badger by your ship tomorrow for an answer. Think about it.”

He walks into the shadows and out through a door on the far side of the room. Simon can see his men by the light from the open door as they follow him out. He’s surprised to see the man who was guarding Zoe’s cell among them.

He starts to mention it to Mal, but gets a hand over his mouth. Mal gives him a warning look: Wait until we’re outside. He can do that.

Outside they find Badger and his goons gone.

“You think the room was bugged?” Simon asked.

“Don’t know. I don’t trust that bastard. Didn’t know what was gonna come out your mouth, either.” Mal flashes him a quick smile. “Never do. So best he didn’t hear it.”

“I was just going to say I recognized on of the men with him. The one you punched, the one who was guarding Zoe.”

Mal nods. “Yeah, I saw him, too. Weird.”

“Why weird?”

Mal shrugs. “Wouldn’t have thought he’d last long after screwing up like that.”

“Maybe Viktor wasn’t looking for a scapegoat.”

“He ain’t a nice guy, Simon. He’s been with Niska for years.”

Simon opens his mouth to say he knows that, but stops just in time. Mal would want to know where he got that information, and Simon wouldn’t be able to tell him without betraying Inara’s secret. Mal still doesn’t know why Viktor let Inara dock, and Inara wants to keep it that way.

“I’m only saying that if he treated that man decently, maybe he’ll do the same with you.”

It’s weak, but he doesn’t know what else to say. It’s not as if he’s trying to talk Mal into this, but on the other hand he doesn’t want Mal to misjudge the situation. Viktor, not Niska, was the threat that the guards seemed to feel hanging over their heads. Misjudging him could be dangerous.

Simon shrugs mentally. Mal will make up his own mind.

“You could use the money,” he says.

This stops the conversation, as Simon suspected it would. The crew hasn’t had a job since Ariel that has let them do more than scrape by.

They walk on in silence. Simon realizes he’s still carrying the bag containing the remains of their dinner and tosses it on the top of a pile of trash already spilling over its trashcan.

Mal is leading them through the dim streets with a fair bit of confidence. Simon isn’t sure this is the way they came, but is prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt…until they pass a certain trash can crowned with a bag from Harga’s House of Ribs for the second time.

“Mal.”

“What?”

“We’re lost.”

“I know exactly where we are.”

“So do I, because we’ve been by here twice already.”

Mal stops and sighs. “I’m gonna kill Badger one of these days.”

“This way.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure the way we were going was wrong. Is that close enough?”

Mal shoots him an irritated look, but says nothing.

They do eventually find a street they recognize, and from there it isn’t far to the shopping district they were wandering earlier in the evening.

On the way back to the ship, Mal ducks into Harga’s to return the candle. He emerges with a bloody lip.

“He knew I stole it,” Mal mutters. “Just walked right up behind me and when I turned around, wham. Like I needed another split lip. And I can hear you trying not to laugh. Give it up before you bust something.”

Mal turns his head as he speaks, and the angle casts the glow of the streetlight over his face. Suddenly Simon doesn’t feel like laughing any more.

“Told him I only borrowed it,” Mal is grumbling. “Guy has no sense of humor at all.” He looks at Simon. “What?”

Simon reaches up and brushes his fingers over Mal’s cheek. The bruises from his second stint at Niska’s hands have yet to fade. Longing comes over Simon so hard he feels it like an ache in his chest–just the simple desire to keep Mal safe. He wonders how Mal would react if he told him. He’d probably run a mile.

Then Mal is backing him against the light post, hands framing his face and their cheeks rubbing together before their lips meet. Blood taste in his mouth, and all Simon can think is that Mal is going to have to stop kissing him when he’s wounded, or Simon’s going to develop some kind of kink. He grabs onto Mal’s shirt and keeps his grip when Mal would back off, keeping him close a moment longer to kiss his jaw, his neck.

“We should get back to the ship,” he says, before Mal can.

Mal just nods, but he reaches for Simon’s hand and doesn’t give it up until they’re within sight of the spaceport.

They walk into the cargo bay, and Simon watches Mal take Zoe in tow, talking about Viktor and fifty thousand credits, ignoring him completely.

Jayne chuckles as Zoe and Mal head for the bridge. “Didn’t even get a goodnight kiss, huh?”

“It was…an unusual evening.”

“I’ll bet. So, you think we’re gonna get that fifty thousand?”

Simon finally looks away from the door through which Mal vanished and frowns at Jayne.

“How should I know?”

“You’re the one screwing him. Don’t you know what’s on his mind?”

“Do you have the least idea how offensive you are?”

“What? I just asked a simple question. If you don’t want to answer, all you got to do is say.”

And really, it is much easier to answer than to explain why Jayne shouldn’t have asked in the first place. Simon finds that he isn’t offended anyway. His objection was routine. He is too used to Jayne’s utter lack of tact to take offense where none was intended.

In truth, sometimes it is a relief to be blunt.

“I’m not screwing him. And no, as usual, I have no idea what’s going on in his head.”

Jayne grunts. “We could use the money.”

Simon smiles suddenly. “That’s what I said.”

He leaves Jayne looking surprised and goes to his room.

The roses are on the bed where he left them, wilted, but still as soft and fragrant as before. He rubs a petal between thumb and forefinger and picks up the bouquet. Someone has left a vase filled with water on the table, and he submerges the stems, wondering who left it. He suspects Inara and wonders why she didn’t put the roses in it herself.

He wonders where Jayne got the idea that he and Mal are already…intimate. Screwing. Maybe screwing is a better word. They are already intimate, in a way.

He wonders why he’s not more upset that Mal took off to do captainy things without a word to him.

He wonders how he can be so calm when he’ll be leaving everything behind him again tomorrow for the second time in his life. He wonders why he hasn’t yet told River.

He goes next door to do just that, but she is sleeping peacefully, and that is still too rare an occurrence for him to disturb her.

Back in his room, he undresses and gets in bed, but not with the intention of going to sleep. He doesn’t expect to get much sleep tonight.

It is perhaps an hour before his door slides open. Mal walks in without waiting to be invited, wearing his normal clothes again, looking as if the whole strange evening never happened.

He closes the door behind him and stands still for a moment, outlined against the dim light coming from the hall. He holds out a piece of paper.

“Names of some folks who might help you, here and on a couple other planets. They’ll want paying, but everybody does. The underlined ones, you probably shouldn’t mention my name when you talk to them.”

Simon reaches out to take it, but Mal pulls his hand back and, looking into Simon’s eyes, rips the paper in half.

“Said I wouldn’t make it easy.”

Simon watches, not knowing how to reply, as Mal comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Think I figured it out, finally,” Mal says. “Why you’re leaving.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t in the top three percent of my class or nothing, but I get there eventually. You feel guilty about coming to–” Mal pauses, smiles, looking uncomfortable. “Rescue me,” he finishes. “‘Cause if you’d got yourself killed, who’d look after your sister.”

“Yes.” Simon swallows hard and looks away.

“It’s stupid,” Mal says.

“What would you know about it? You have no idea how hard– And she’s still–” His throat closes up. He turns his face to the wall, hand fisted in the sheets.

“I know about keeping the people I care for safe,” Mal says quietly. “Serenity ain’t the safest place in the ‘verse maybe, but nowhere’s for sure. Nowhere’s certain. You could find some planet with not another human soul on it and maybe you’d get hit by lightening, and she’d still have to do without you. Only there, she’d be all alone.”

“I have to make sure she’s all right,” Simon whispers, more to himself than to Mal. “I have to.”

Mal’s hand comes to rest on his back, stroking lightly.

“I know it. You will. We will.”

“Our problems aren’t your problems.”

“They are. Anyone of us could die anytime, Simon. Life ain’t a certain thing. Here, she’s got more than just you. You want to take that away from her?”

Tears sting Simon’s eyes, and he presses his hands against them until he sees stars.

“Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“Not on your life.” The hand on Simon’s back stays where it is.

“It would be easier if we left. Easier for everyone.”

“Just recently I’ve found that the easiest way ain’t always the best way.”

Simon jerks away from Mal’s touch, knocks away the hand that reaches for him. “You throw that in my face after–”

“I fight dirty. I’m right, and you know it.”

He does know it. Simon’s anger deserts him and leaves him cold. His shoulders slump, and one tear overflows, burning a path down his cheek.

“I need life to be certain, Mal. I need to believe that…if I do everything right… I have to be able to help her, or this was all–”

“For nothing? She’s out. She’s safe. They’re not hurting her.”

“She’s still there, Mal. She’s still there in her head so much of the time.” He covers his face with his hands, hearing his voice shake, wanting so much not to break down. He has to keep going. He wants Mal to understand. “It’s almost worse now, because she can feel it coming on, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.”

“I know it’s bad.” Mal’s arm comes around Simon’s shoulders, and Simon doesn’t fight it. “I’ll help all I can. You know that, right?”

Yes. Mal would help anyone on his ship who needed it; that is not in question. Simon wonders fleetingly what would have happened if he’d said he needed Mal to be more to him than just his captain. It wasn’t true then, but he thinks it might be now. He doesn’t think it would be possible to live on Serenity and see Mal every day without being able to touch him, and even the thought of staying brings the fear that Mal would end up pushing him away again.

“I need some time to think. Alone.”

“No.”

Simon opens his eyes, finally, looks at Mal’s stubborn expression. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean I ain’t leaving you in here alone to brood and think up more reasons why you can’t stay.”

“Until a few days ago I couldn’t get you to stay in the same room with me for five minutes at a time. Now I can’t get rid of you?”

“You got it.”

He can feel his resolve crumbling, and he can’t tell any more which is the right choice. He wants to stay, but he can’t quite believe that anything he wants that badly can be right.

“I don’t know what to do,” he hears himself whisper.

Mal makes no reply, only stroking lightly up and down Simon’s back. Simon almost expected him to push his case now, and his silent support is a relief.

Simon leans into the touch until he is settled with his back against Mal’s chest. Mal’s arms come around his waist, just holding him.

“I want to stay…”

But. There’s always a but. What about next time–what happens when the next situation they come across forces him to endanger himself, or River, or–

Life is uncertain. And River deserves a family who loves her, who will fight for her, and these people will do that. He feels a soft kiss pressed to the top of his head, and suddenly he is blinking back tears again for no reason he can name.

He turns his head, asking silently for a kiss, and Mal’s lips are on his immediately. So gentle, and he feels a plea in that kiss that he knows Mal won’t say out loud again, because despite everything he’s said, Mal is trying to make this easier for him.

He breaks away just enough to speak. “Stay with me tonight.”

Mal pulls him close again. “Try and stop me.”

The mesh of their lips is almost too perfect, and Mal’s hands are under Simon’s shirt now. Simon has to take a breath, and he catches Mal’s wrists.

“Just to sleep.”

Mal kisses him once more and then draws back. “I got no problem with that.”

Mal stands, undressing slowly. He doesn’t stop until he is stripped bare. Simon watches every movement. Mal smiles briefly as he meets Simon’s eyes and then looks away. He climbs under the covers, and Simon feels a hand ghost over his hip. He catches and holds it as Mal’s body settles against his.

The decision comes from nowhere and from everywhere at once.

“I’m not leaving,” he says.

They lie still for a moment, Mal’s back against Simon’s chest, but then Mal turns toward him, face against his neck, arms hooked over his shoulders, holding him close, grip painfully, crushingly tight for a moment. Hitched breath, lips against his throat.

The grip eases, and he feels Mal relax, half on top of him and showing no sign of moving. He rests one hand on the curve of Mal’s back, the other in his hair, combing through it with his fingers. Over and over, warm and soft, hypnotic. The quiet rise and fall of their breathing stills his mind, and Mal’s heartbeat against his chest is something he didn’t know until now he was struggling to live without.

It’s hard to let sleep come, to believe that this isn’t the one and only time he’ll be able to have this. Mal is snoring in his ear long before he allows his own eyes to close.


	9. Life in Itself

Mal wakes up more slowly than usual. There is nothing waiting to yank him out of bed and into the day, and he has every reason to want to stay right where he is.

He slipped down during the night, and he is lying with his face on Simon’s chest. Simon’s arms hold him loosely. Breath ruffles his hair. He closes his eyes.

The second time Mal wakes, Simon is lying on his side, looking down at him.

Simon isn’t leaving.

Sleep-warmed and still drowsy, Mal is more than happy to hold that thought in his mind to the exclusion of everything else. He watches as Simon bends down to kiss him, keeping his eyes open until the last second and then sinking into a soft, hot mouth.

There is a gentle knock on the door.

“Captain? You in there?”

Zoe’s voice. Doesn’t that just figure.

He extracts himself from Simon’s arms and gets his pants on. He slides the door open a crack.

“What?”

Zoe doesn’t even blink. “Badger’s here. I got the info you wanted on Viktor.”

Mal sighs. “Give me a minute. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

He turns away, slides the door shut, eyes searching for his shirt.

Simon yawns and stretches. “What time is it?”

“Don’t know. Late, I’d guess.”

He is bending over to pick up his shirt when hands catch his hips, pulling him back. When he straightens up, Simon turns him around, hands spread across his sides. After a moment of thoughtful silence, Simon pulls his suspenders up onto his shoulders.

“Have I told you,” Simon says, hands brushing down Mal’s bare chest, “that you look really good in these?”

“In suspenders?” Mal asks, bemused.

“Mm-hm.” He bends, licking across one nipple and making Mal sway toward him. “And right now you look…just…”

“What?”

Simon smiles at him, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Incredibly sexy comes to mind. Sleepy and half-naked is a good look on you.”

A tug on his suspenders, and Mal is leaning forward automatically, hands sliding over the bare curve of Simon’s ass. He lets his eyes close, breathing in the scent of Simon’s hair as Simon licks delicately at his neck.

Then Simon is stepping back, laughter in his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be talking to Badger right about now?”

“That was low. You’re an evil, evil man, Simon Tam.”

“You can come and find me when you’re done.”

“You can pretty much count on that.”

He can feel Simon’s eyes on him as he washes up and dresses, making it hard to concentrate, and Simon is there again, right beside him as he zips his boots and stands up.

One last kiss and no words at all, and he is walking fast around the corner and up the stairs, trying to leave last night and this morning behind him.

Zoe and Jayne are waiting for him in the kitchen. The preacher is leaning against the counter, sipping tea.

“Where’s Badger?”

“Cargo bay,” Jayne says. “Talking to Kaylee and Wash. He ain’t armed, and I made his boys wait outside.”

Mal nods. “Fine.” Turns to Zoe. “What have you got?”

“Viktor Vogel, parents deceased, older brother also deceased. Younger sister, fifteen. Her name is Margaret.”

Mal waits for a second. Zoe looks at him expectantly. “Okay. And why do I care about Margaret?”

She smiles. “Because Margaret has been attending a convent school on Eos for the last five years.”

“Really.” He sits down. His brain is slow, despite all that sleep. Caffeine is what he needs. “I hear there’s been some trouble on Eos.”

He wonders how far he’d get if he tried to steal Zoe’s coffee. Probably not very far.

“Riots and such,” Zoe tells him. “In particular, in the capital city.”

“Which just happens to be where Viktor’s sister goes to school?”

“You got it.”

Jayne, foolishly, is looking the other way, and Mal takes the opportunity to slide his mug over.

“Hey!”

It’s hard to remember sometimes that Jayne really isn’t as slow as he looks. A hand closes over Mal’s wrist before he can complete Operation Coffee Theft.

“That’s mine,” Jayne says.

“I need it more than you do.”

Jayne squints at him, then smirks and lets go of his wrist. “Go ahead. Since you had such a _long, hard_ night…”

Mal hunches over the coffee, trying to ignore the sounds of stifled snickers. Or in Jayne’s case, not so stifled. He’s wondering if he should be dealing with Badger and Viktor at all today if he was stupid enough to set himself up for that one.

He sighs and lets it go. “All right. So Viktor thinks Eos might not be the healthiest place for his sister right about now.” Which more or less explains the emphasis put on Mal being a ‘decent man’ last night. “Fifty thousand’s an awful lot for one girl, and I don’t see any reason he couldn’t go get her himself.”

“If he’s really taking over from Niska,” Jayne says, “could be he just don’t have time.”

“Could be he doesn’t want to attract that kind of attention to her, either,” Zoe adds.

Mal nods as if he knew this all along. He would have if he’d thought about it last night instead of…well, there wasn’t really any choice there.

“Still,” he says. “Fifty thousand. I’m thinking maybe it’s not just the girl he wants us to get. Anything else interesting on Eos?”

Zoe shakes her head. “Not that I could find. There’s a museum or two with some stuff that might be worth stealing, but…”

“But that ain’t exactly our kind of job.”

She shrugs. “After Ariel, maybe he thinks we’re ready to move up to the big time.”

“Great.” He sips at the coffee, and it scalds his tongue. “So it’s still a mystery job.”

“Yeah, but, Mal–fifty fucking thousand! Come on.”

“I think I might’ve pointed out before that you can’t get paid if you’re dead, Jayne. Did it not sink in the first time?”

“I guess it’s down to whether you trust him or not.”

Everyone around the table looks over at Book’s comment.

“I guess so, Shepherd. And I don’t.” More coffee. He’s starting to feel awake now, thoughts moving at something approaching normal speed. “And don’t start sulking, Jayne. I ain’t saying no yet. Gonna go talk to him.”

“You think Badger’ll just lead you to him?”

“No, I do not. Anyone got a piece of paper? If Badger wants to play messenger boy, I’ll let him.”

*

Mal looks at Viktor. They are seated at the same table they faced each other across last night. The only difference is that Zoe and Jayne are now standing behind Mal’s chair, looming like a pair of heavily armed gargoyles, and two of Viktor’s men are doing the same behind him. It’s a nice civilized little scene compared to some meetings Mal’s had with prospective employers.

Viktor slides the note Mal sent him across the table. There are only two words written on it: Margaret Vogel.

“You’re smarter than I thought you were, Captain.”

“Your sister didn’t take much finding. If you were trying to hide her, you might have done a better job.”

Viktor shrugs fractionally. “There were reasons for placing her there.” He slides a photo across the table until it rests on top of the note. “This is her. It was taken three months ago.”

Pretty girl. Dark skin, wildly curly hair, olive green eyes, and an expression just as blank as Viktor’s is right now.

“Okay.” He hands the photo off to Zoe. “So we pick her up, bring her to you, get our money, and that’s it?” Even as he says it, he doesn’t believe for a second that things will be that simple.

“Not quite. You’ll take her to Newstar. There’s a good boarding school there.”

Also very little Alliance presence and a stable government, if he recalls correctly. Makes sense. Viktor passes him a card with the address of the school on it as a voice behind Mal says, “You don’t even want to see her?”

It’s Jayne, once again saying out loud what everyone else had sense enough to keep quiet about. Mal turns and gives him a shut-the-hell-up look, but Jayne isn’t paying attention.

“She’s the only family you got, and you’re just gonna ship her off to some fancy rich kid school?”

“Jayne.” Jayne looks at him, pissed off and defiant, and rather than smack him down in front of Viktor, Mal mouths the words, ‘fifty fucking thousand’ at him. Jayne grunts and shuts up.

Mal turns back to Viktor, who is looking even more blank than previously. “So we take her to Newstar and collect the cash.”

“Again, not quite.”

“Fifty thousand did seem like overkill for passenger transport.”

Viktor smiles so briefly that it looks more like a facial twitch. “Have you seen the latest from Eos? The capital is a free fire zone. You may have more problems on that score than you anticipate. But you’re right. There is something else.”

“Want to tell me what that might be? I got a lot of talents, but mind reading ain’t one of them.”

“Are you committed to the job?”

“Got no problem with getting the girl out. Won’t know about the rest until you tell me.”

“And I can’t tell you unless you’ll do it.”

“Well, that puts us at something of an impasse, don’t it?”

Viktor folds his hands on the table. His eyes move quickly from Zoe to Jayne and back to Mal. “It’s simple enough. Merchandise transport. Nothing you haven’t done before. You’ll pick up the cargo on Eos and bring it to the skyplex after you drop her off at Newstar.”

“What kind of cargo?”

“I don’t remember you being quite so inquisitive, Captain.”

“And look where it got me.”

“Fair point. All right. I can tell you what it’s not–not slaves, not drugs, not anything you’d find…morally objectionable.”

‘Morally objectionable’ makes Mal feel like a damn preacher or something, but he lets it pass. “And if I take the job, you’ll tell me what I’m transporting?”

“I won’t have much of a choice. You’ll have to know.”

Mal hates these moments. Any decision he makes now will be based on a guess and a character assessment of a man he finds nearly impossible to read. The only solid fact at his disposal is his own current state of extreme poverty.

He looks down at the table and picks at an incipient hole in the thigh of his pants. Thinking, have to mend that tonight before it gets worse. Thinking, fifty thousand. Thinking, this could get us all killed. Thinking, what is it about this guy that’s creeping me out so bad? Thinking, finally, if we don’t take this job it’ll be a miracle if we get another one before the fuel runs out–and that’ll be it. Grounded.

Miracles don’t come along everyday. Mal figures he’s already had his share just recently.

“Ten percent up front.”

Viktor gestures to one of his men, who hands him a bag. It clinks as it hits the table.

“Ten percent in platinum.” Viktor stands and holds out a hand. “Do we have a deal, Captain?”

They shake. Viktor’s hand is hard and dry, and he holds Mal’s gaze a second longer than most people would. Mal steps back and has to resist a sudden impulse to wipe his hand on his pants.

Maybe Viktor caught that because his mouth twitches in another brief smile. He hands Mal a sheet of digipaper. “All the details you’ll need are in here, including the cargo in question. Your DNA signature will unlock it. Contact Badger if you need to find me.”

“Do we really have to bring Badger into this?”

Mal could swear Viktor is trying not to laugh as he answers. “He’s already in it.”

“Yeah, and why is that anyway?”

“He’s the biggest player in the city. It would have been bad manners to ignore his position here.”

“You couldn’t have just sent him a thank-you card or something?”

“Goodbye, Captain.”

Mal turns to go. He gets as far as the door.

“Oh, and Captain?” Mal looks back over his shoulder. “I just got word before our meeting–there are two Alliance troop transport ships on the way to Eos. You might want to arrange things so you arrive before they do.”

Mal sighs inwardly. “Right.”

Outside, he stops to take a breath and let things come together in his head, which they more or less fail to do. He closes his eyes for a second and opens them to find Jayne and Zoe watching him.

“All right, you two. What’s the problem?”

“I heard nothing about any Alliance troops en route to Eos, Captain. There would’ve been something on the Cortex.”

“Hun dan’s jerking us around,” Jayne growls.

“Maybe,” Mal says. “Or maybe he knows something we don’t. Either way, decision’s made.” He opens the bag and hands them each a pile of platinum. “You know what we need. Get going. We lift off in two hours.”

Zoe nods sharply and goes off in her discreet version of a huff. Jayne slopes off in the opposite direction, glancing back over his shoulder and looking more worried than anything else.

Mal starts off, walking fast and thinking faster. He hates it when Jayne and Zoe are both worried. It usually means he’s just done something monumentally stupid.

Well, no time to think about it now. He has a list of stores they need and a list of engine parts from Kaylee, color-coded for price, some items with little hearts or stars added for emphasis.

She seemed a little cool when she gave it to him, presumably because she wanted to go herself, but he knew somehow they’d end up pressed for time, and it’s not much use trying to get Kaylee to hurry through her shopping.

He pulls it out of his pocket and unfolds it. The guy at the store will know what this stuff is. He hopes.

*

Maybe Jayne was right, and Viktor is jerking them around. Maybe this is the job that will turn out to be too much for them. Maybe something will go horribly wrong–it usually does–or the contact won’t show up, or the girl will be pregnant, or…whatever. Maybe. Probably.

Right now Mal doesn’t care. He leans on the railing of the catwalk overlooking the cargo bay and can’t help smiling.

Wash is doing his best to help Zoe stow the supplies she brought back, but as Mal watches, Wash picks up the crate that Zoe just set down next to the storage locker where it belongs and carries it over to her. It’s the fourth or fifth time he’s done this, and Zoe starts bawling him out. Mal shakes his head and wonders how he could have ever doubted she loved him. Wash is the only one Zoe ever yells at.

Kaylee is bouncing around her newly delivered engine parts and pulling on Jayne’s arm to get him to help her carry them up to the engine room. Jayne unloads the mule, doing his best to ignore Kaylee. Simon, firm as ever in his belief that Jayne can’t handle the medical supplies without breaking them, hovers nearby, occasionally taking an elbow to the ribs as Jayne tells him to wait two ruttin’ minutes while he gets things sorted out.

“Happy?”

River is standing beside him. Mal wonders if it’s a bad sign that it doesn’t startle him when she creeps up him any more.

“Pretty much. You?”

She ducks under his arm, standing between him and the railing. “Climb the tree. See what you see.” She cranes her head to look in his eyes. “Your people.”

“Yup. My people.”

“Can’t see me,” she mutters. “I can’t be seen.”

“I can see you just fine.”

She turns around, a concentrated frown on her face, and puts a hand over his eyes. “Can’t now.”

“Can so.”

“Cannot!” She sounds outraged at his illogic.

“Can so.”

“Can’t!” She takes her hand away. “You can’t see with your eyes closed, Captain.”

“Sure I can. Maybe not as good as you, but I can see.”

“Far enough?” She looks concerned now, lifting herself to sit on the railing so her eyes are level with his. “Can you see the heel, the part left dry? Can you see the end?”

She whips her head around, looking out over the cargo bay and standing up on the railing at the same time, her balance wavering. Mal catches her around the waist and lifts her down.

“Watch yourself, girl. This is no place to be playing around.”

“Can you?” she insists.

Mal sighs. “Nobody can know how things are going to come out. You don’t know the end until you get there.”

She nods, pushing the hair back from her face and looking calmer. “Sometimes not even then.”

She turns back to the scene below them, and Mal can feel the search light of her attention follow first one group and then another. After a minute, her body relaxes, and she leans back against him.

His hand rests lightly on her shoulder, barely a touch. She feels fragile and heated as a bird. He can feel her heartbeat against his chest, through her back. It slows gradually to something approaching normal, and he plays the conversation over in his mind.

He’s having that just-not-smart-enough feeling again.

*

It’s night by the ship’s clock, and they are well on their way to Eos. Mal is on his way to Simon’s room when a wrench exiting the engine room at high speed nearly stops him for good.

“Kaylee?”

Her head pops around the door, eyes wide. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! Didn’t hear you out there, Captain.”

“You might never have heard from me again if that thing had hit my head.”

“Yeah. Um. Sorry.” She blinks at him and looks away. “I’d better get back to work.” She darts out to grab the wrench and then disappears inside.

She brushed him off earlier, too, when he offered to help carry her new stuff up to the engine room. He didn’t think anything of it at the time, but this just isn’t like her.

He follows.

“Kaylee?”

“Yeah, Captain?” She sounds almost normal, her voice muffled slightly because she’s already underneath her engine.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure. Everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”

He’s on the verge of accepting her reassurance when he remembers why everything might not be so fine.

He doesn’t think she’s spoken a word more to him than she absolutely had to since she wished him and Simon well last night. It’s not as if she’s been cold, or anything much out of the ordinary. But then it’s Kaylee, and she wouldn’t be.

Even if she really is okay with it, he owes her…something. An explanation at the very least. He opens his mouth and closes it again. The words just aren’t there. But he has to say something. It’s only going to get harder the longer he waits.

“Look,” he starts. “About Simon…”

“I think he’s doing better now, don’t you? I mean, not so worried about River, and settling in finally. Learning to shoot and all. You think maybe I should do that? He said it hurt his wrists, but I think he’s just not so strong, you know? Not that–”

“Kaylee.”

She stops, and he hears a quiet sniffle from under the engine. Hell. _Fuck_.

“It was just a crush, Captain. Just a silly crush. Don’t you worry about me.”

She’s lying. It’s in her voice, in the way her heel digs into the floor as she twists herself farther under the engine.

He could call her on it, but he won’t. Of all the people in the ‘verse she doesn’t want to talk to about this, he’s most likely right at the top of the list.

He squats down to lay a hand on her ankle. She pulls her foot away.

“I’m sorry, mei mei. I tried to– Hell, once he figured out that you–” He sighs. “Thought it’d take him all of ten seconds to forget about me.”

He stands, and he’s almost to the door when a wild jangle and crash of metal behind him makes him turn just in time to get an armful of greasy mechanic, who squeezes him until his ribs creak.

Her voice is muffled against his chest. “I was trying so hard to be, you know, nice about it, and really I _am_ happy for you, but– It’s just–”

She breaks off with another sniffle, and all he can do is hold her and wish he knew what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

He swallows hard and kisses the top of her head. “You got nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. Nothing at all.”

“You weren’t supposed to know.”

He can think of nothing to say to that, either. He can only stand there and feel his gut twist into knots while Book’s voice in his head tells him he’s for sure going to some kind of special hell for hurting her like this.

He rests his chin on the top of her head. “You know I didn’t do it on purpose, right?”

“I know. You wouldn’t do that. You’re a good man, Captain. You _are_.”

He says nothing, just squeezes her tighter for a second. He’d rather she kept on believing it. There are days when he thinks it’s the only thing keeping him human. There are any number of things he’s stopped himself from doing because Kaylee thinks he’s a good man.

She backs off, wiping her eyes, and they look at each other.

“You okay?”

She nods. “I think I’m gonna go talk to Inara for a while.”

He watches her go and leans against the wall, needing the support. He stares at the engine in front of him without really seeing it. After a moment, he rights the toolbox she knocked over and puts her tools back inside. Then he heads toward the bridge.

*

The bridge is empty and dark. He sits down without turning on the lights and watches the stars.

The smallest, coldest point of light he sees could swallow his ship whole and leave not even a handful of ash behind. Even the Alliance’s new prototype ships could sail through space a thousand years and not reach some of those stars.

The first company commander Mal had in the war used to curse the stars on cloudless nights. He said they only reminded you how small you were and made you wonder why you bothered–with the war, with life, with anything. Mal sat up and listened to him some nights, until the man drank himself stupid on whiskey and passed out. Mal never understood it. He likes the stars, always has.

They’re always there, always the same. No matter what life is throwing at him, the stars never change. Why he finds that a comfort where Captain Carse found it a trial, he couldn’t say, but it is a comfort nonetheless. As much as anything can be.

He wouldn’t have hurt her for anything. This isn’t something he can fix with a new dress. This isn’t something he can fix.

Behind him he hears the soft rasp of leather soles on metal.

“Mal? Are you all right?”

He stays quiet as Simon comes to stand beside him. He doesn’t want to talk. There’s nothing to talk about. He’d just as soon Simon fucked off and left him alone–that was what he came up here for anyway, which ought to be obvious to anyone with half a brain. A man doesn’t hole up in the dark if he’s looking for civilized conversation.

He opens his mouth to tell Simon all that and probably some more besides, but it doesn’t quite work out like that. He looks up and meets Simon’s eyes, and suddenly the last thing he wants is for Simon to leave.

“C’mere.”

The corner of Simon’s mouth turns up. “I am here.”

Mal catches Simon around the waist and pulls. Simon grabs the back of the chair as he stumbles, but it’s not enough. He lands in Mal’s lap.

“Now you’re here.”

Simon collects his dignity and gives Mal a measured look. “You know this is absurd, right? I am not sitting in your lap.”

“Better check your facts there, Doc.”

“There’s another perfectly good chair right over there.”

“Too far away.”

Simon is quiet a moment. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t lie to me.”

“Nothing I want to talk about, then.”

There is a longer pause this time, but at the end of it Simon sighs and settles an arm around Mal’s neck. “All right. Let me know when you can’t feel your legs any more.”

Mal lets out a long breath and rests his head on Simon’s shoulder. He closes his eyes. Simon’s scent surrounds him–clean and sharp, aftershave, maybe the shampoo he uses. He feels Simon’s hand at the nape of his neck, thumb stroking against the growth pattern of his hair.

Mal thinks of Kaylee’s tears and pained smile. It should be her in Simon’s arms. Should be, but it’s not. He’s sorry, but not as sorry as he should be.

He can’t give this up. Won’t.

“I was expecting to see more of you today,” Simon says quietly.

“Busy.”

“I know. I hear we took the job.”

“We did.”

“You know…I came up here to yell at you.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Ignoring me. And yes, I am aware how much that makes me sound like a teenage girl.”

“Yell away.”

“I don’t feel like it any more.”

“Good.” He angles his head until he can press his face against Simon’s throat, kiss the soft skin there.

One kiss isn’t enough. He opens his mouth, licking, sealing his lips against Simon’s throat and sucking gently. He hears Simon gasp. This isn’t enough, either. He’s getting the feeling it never will be.

“I want to take you to bed, Simon. Now. Any objections?”

“N-no. None.”

“Good.” He stands up, taking Simon with him and loving the sudden squeak and clutch at his neck as all Simon’s dignity flies out the window.

“Mal!”

“Think I should carry you over the threshold?”

“I think you should put me down before you injure yourself.”

Mal sets him down, nearly laughing, despite everything. “You are just no fun at all, you know that?”

“Tell me that again in the morning. I should check on River first. Make sure she’s settled down.”

“You do that. I’ll be in my bunk.”

*

Mal sets his boots at the foot of his bed, out of the way. Then his suspenders get pulled down to dangle from his waist. Shirt untucked. Socks peeled off.

He can’t stop moving, can’t stop doing.

First three buttons undone. Suspenders thrown to the floor.

He wishes Simon would hurry up.

His face is hot, and when he looks in the mirror, he’s caught by his reflection. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes. Fevered. Needful. He stares.

A noise behind him. He turns to stare now at Simon, who is reaching up to lock the door.

Simon looks at him, licks his lips. Not seductive. Nervous.

That’s all it takes. Mal is on him faster than thought. Hands under the bulk of his sweater, shoving it off onto the floor, thumb bumping over ribs, fingers tracing clearly defined muscle.

Simon’s hands start to work on his shirt buttons, but he pushes them away, pulls Simon down by the shoulders until they are both kneeling. Pushes him back and back, cupping his head in one hand and lowering him to the floor. Mal sees the quick rhythm of his breathing, feels the flash of his pulse beneath his skin.

Head bent, Mal tastes the soft skin of his stomach, licking down from the bottom of his ribcage. Down further to suck at his navel and hear Simon start to breath harder. Down further until he has to pause to unzip Simon’s pants, then licking across his hipbone. Tasting salt, faint spice, breathing in the scent of arousal with every breath.

Hands pull on his hair. “Mal…” Simon’s voice is low and shaking. “Mal, wait… I can’t–”

“Don’t want to wait.” He closes his teeth over the sharp angle of a jutting hip, holds and sucks. “Don’t make me wait. Let me have you.”

He looks up at Simon’s face, sees the wide eyes, the slight nod. Simon’s hand rests in his hair as he bends back down.

Simon’s pants are in the way again, and Mal shoves them down. The boxers have to follow, and then he has inches of fresh skin to play with. The tops of Simon’s thighs, the crease where they join his torso, a mass of wiry curls. Everything else is still hidden.

He runs his tongue lightly down that sensitive crease, and the hand in his hair twitches. Licks around the curls, ruffling them with his breath. He sits up to yank the pants down around Simon’s knees and carefully ease off the boxers.

Simon whimpers as he bends down again. Mal pauses, face millimeters from Simon’s cock, breathing over it and moving on. He kisses the inside of Simon’s thigh. Kisses again. Nibbles. The hand in his hair is clenched. Simon is gasping his name over and over, fighting and failing to spread his legs, caught by the tangle of his pants.

Mal can taste his pulse as he licks once up the underside of Simon’s straining cock. He was going to go on to the other thigh after that, but Simon is begging now, voice thick. Desperate, needing him.

Mal drags his lips up the length and mouths lightly at the head. He licks once more and opens wide to take it in. Just the head, sucking lightly, circling with his tongue. Still teasing. Waiting for something.

He only realizes what he’s waiting for when it happens. Simon’s control cracks, and he thrusts up hard. Mal nearly chokes, but finds he’s smiling around the cock stretching his mouth, opens wider. His hands pull Simon’s hips up toward him.

Another short thrust. He swallows as it hits the back of his throat, sucking, urging Simon on. He feels an urgent tug on his hair, trying to get him to stop, to let Simon get himself back under control. Not going to happen.

He slips a finger in his mouth alongside Simon’s cock, wetting it, reaching down and rubbing it over Simon’s opening. He pushes the tip in. A low wail comes from above him, and his mouth is taken in thrust after thrust, each more wild than the last as he pushes his finger farther in. Finds what he’s looking for at last. Simon arches up, back off the floor, pulsing down his throat.

Simon lies still afterward, breath so harsh it almost sounds as if he’s crying. Mal lays his head on Simon’s stomach. He strokes himself slowly through his pants, hard and aching with it, but unwilling to move.

He feels a tug at his shoulder and turns, crawling up Simon’s body until they are face to face.

“Hey, there. You okay?”

Simon blinks at him. “I think you melted my entire skeletal structure. Does that count as okay?”

Mal chuckles. “That’ll do for a start.”

“Mm. A request for next time–let me make it to the bed so I can collapse and be boneless in comfort.”

“I’ll see what I can do. No promises, mind.”

“What about you?” Simon props himself up on one elbow. “Did you, um…?”

Mal snorts. “No. I didn’t _um_.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“It’s just, I don’t usually get so wrapped up in–”

Mal puts a hand over his mouth. “So make it up to me.”

Simon pulls his hand away and grabs a fistful of his shirt, pulling until Mal is close enough to kiss. Delicate slide of tongue across his lips. He opens his mouth, but Simon pulls back.

“Bed. Remember?”

Mal takes Simon’s hand, guides it down between his legs. “Not really feeling like waiting here. Floor’s been good to us so far.”

Simon’s nails scratch lightly over the fabric of Mal’s pants, down his thigh, along the inseam. Back up to cup his erection, rubbing.

“Simon…”

Simon takes his hand away. “Bed. I insist.”

Mal stretches out on his back and groans. “No fun at all.”

Simon kicks off his shoes and pulls off his pants. He sits on the bed, looking down at Mal. He smiles and settles his foot between Mal’s legs.

Mal pushes up against too-light pressure. “Looks like you’ve got me. What are you gonna do with me?”

“Take your shirt off.”

Mal starts to argue, but Simon’s foot presses in, kneading. Mal closes his eyes. There is a tremor in his hands as he starts to work on his buttons. Not much, but enough to make his fingers slip now and then. He wonders if Simon knows how close he is. Much more of this, and he’s going to come in his pants.

“Mal?”

“Huh?” He wonders how he got so breathless so fast. Had it all under control a few minutes ago.

“Shirt. Don’t get distracted now.”

“Sure. Right.”

The buttons are undone, but the cuffs are still fastened, as he finds out when tries to pull his arms free. He swears, hearing Simon’s soft laughter, and pulls until the buttons pop. He wads the shirt up and tosses it across the room.

He opens his eyes to find Simon looking at him.

“Shirt’s gone,” Mal says.

“Indeed. Now what?”

“Frankly, I don’t much care, long as it happens pretty quick.”

“Is that so? I suppose I’ll have to think of something.”

“Something _quick_ ,” Mal mutters, mostly to himself.

Simon’s foot moves steadily, rubbing up and down, a little firmer now. Mal’s eyes slide shut again. He wonders how it would be to give in to this. Give up pride and pretense, moan and beg for it. He doesn’t do that. Not for anyone.

But he’s never wanted anyone like he wants Simon. It’s all he can do right now to keep from squirming under Simon’s teasing, keep from grabbing his foot and grinding against it.

He opens his mouth, gulping in air. “Simon…come on. Will you just…”

“Anything you want.”

The amusement is clear in Simon’s voice, and Mal gets a mental snapshot of himself as he must look. Newsflash, Reynolds: Pride? Long gone.

“Get down here and get me off,” he grates.

Simon laughs quietly as he slides off the bed to kneel beside Mal. His hand trails lightly down Mal’s thigh.

Mal opens his eyes and grabs Simon’s wrist, but can’t say a word. Simon kisses his hand and unzips his pants. Frees his cock with a delicate touch that still manages to make Mal gasp.

Simon stretches out beside him and lays a hand on Mal’s cheek, bringing their mouths together. All heat and yielding softness, Simon’s lips move against his, tongue pushing inside, slick against the roof of his mouth, teasing. Fucking his mouth as Simon’s hand starts to move on his cock.

He holds Simon close against him, lost in deep, wet kisses that merge one into another without end. Simon’s hand is firm, pulling him toward the edge. He hangs on longer than he thought possible, but finally comes crying out into Simon’s mouth, blood roaring in his ears.

The next thing he’s aware of is a cool hand stroking his forehead.

“Mal?”

“Huh?”

“All right?”

“Mm-hm. Oh, yeah. Real good here.”

Simon’s laughing at him again. He opens his eyes, looks up. Forgets how to breathe for a second, because Simon is honestly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Bed,” Simon tells him. “Seriously. Right now.”

Mal lets himself be pulled up off the floor and stands, swaying, while Simon pulls the covers back.

Mal has had others in this bed with him before. Not many, admittedly, but a few over the years. It was a strain to fit in here with them long enough to get some satisfaction out of the encounters, and he wouldn’t have thought of letting them stay the night.

Simon fits perfectly against him, curled up against his side, eyes already closed.

“It’s okay if I stay?”

Mal pulls him closer. “You say that like I’d let you leave.”


	10. Sic Transit

Simon awakes searching for something. His eyes are still sealed with sleep, and dream fragments cloud his mind. He knows there is something missing, and for the moment this is all he knows. He stretches out a hand and bangs his knuckles against a wall that should not be there. The wall is on the other side of his bed.

He unsticks one eye. He is not in his bed. He is in Mal’s bed, and the something missing is Mal.

He stares at the wall, close enough to it to see the pattern of the brushed metal, like wood grain. He can’t decide if he wants to turn over. So much has happened in the past two days. Too much. It can’t be real. It’s more likely that he and Mal had some kind of ill advised liaison last night, and now Mal has fled the scene. Much more likely.

Except… He remembers Mal pulling him down to the floor, the hunger in Mal’s eyes. For him. He remembers waking up beside Mal yesterday. That recently? Yes. Just yesterday. So much was resolved between them, and even if he can’t trust it quite yet, the memories give him enough courage to turn over.

Mal is sitting at his desk, bending over something. Simon lets go of some small part of the fear he has been clutching to him since he woke. At least Mal is still here.

“Working already? What time is it?”

Mal turns and smiles at him. No trace of regret. Simon finds he has to close his eyes for a second as the relief gets the better of him. Stupid to worry after Mal had done so much to convince him to stay, but he has always been unsure of his place here, and he is still more unsure now.

“Early. Haven’t even been up for coffee yet. You want some?”

“God, yes.”

Mal stands and detours on his way to the ladder. One knee on the bed, he cups Simon’s cheek and leans in to kiss him softly. Warm and welcome mesh of lips, unhurried, lingering. He can taste Mal’s smile.

Mal pulls back and looks at him a moment more, still wearing that smile–sweet and, for once, happy. Then he turns away, and soon all Simon can see of him are his feet as he disappears up the ladder.

Simon touches his own mouth, feeling the harshness of tears at the back of his throat, feeling like a fool, but a happy fool. It is the sight of that smile on Mal’s face that’s affecting him, and the certain knowledge that he put it there.

But he is not fifteen, and so he pulls his hand away from his mouth and dresses quickly, determined not to act like a besotted adolescent, even if he feels like one. He is splashing his face with water when Mal returns, bearing coffee.

Simon takes the mug he is offered and seats himself at the desk.

“So, what were you looking at so early in the morning?”

“The stuff Viktor gave me. All the details, he said. Lyin’ S.O.B.”

“Not all the details?”

Mal picks up the sheet of digipaper and presses his thumb to the top right corner. It activates, scrolling text down the page.

Mal sets it down in front of him. “Take a look.”

He stares at Mal. A sinking feeling creeps through him. “Is that thing keyed to your DNA?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Why? Has it escaped your notice that the last three capital cases tried were convicted because of evidence like this? This is all the feds need to prove intent, and afterwards it’s going to be all they need to convict you!”

“Whoa, Simon, calm down.” Mal is looking at him with a faintly bemused expression. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“It is that big a deal. Why did Viktor give you this? Why not just tell you what you needed to know if he was worried about someone else seeing it? Why link you so irrevocably to this unless he’s planning to set you up?”

Simon takes a deep breath and struggles for calm. If he loses it, Mal isn’t going to pay any attention to what he says. But there is one thing he can think of that will get Mal’s attention. It’s been on everyone’s minds since Viktor made his proposition.

“Fifty thousand, Mal. For passenger and cargo transport. Doesn’t that seem like a bit much to you?”

“So, you’re the expert when it comes to smuggling, now?”

“I don’t have to be an expert. Just open your eyes and look beyond the profit. You’re smarter than this.”

Mal’s laugh is short and hard, and Simon is suddenly very glad he took the time to get dressed.

“Let’s not go talking about intelligence. If I was as smart as all that, I’d never have taken you and your sister on board.”

Yes. Very glad he took the time to get dressed.

He set his mug down too hard, splashing coffee on the digipaper.

“I’m sure you know best. I’ll see you later, Captain.”

“Simon–”

He ignores Mal and propels himself up the ladder and into the hall.

*

Simon stops short outside his own room. Inara is standing in the open doorway, facing away from him.

“Inara?”

She wheels around, almost stumbling. Her voice is breathless. “Simon. I– I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’m glad to see you,” he says, feeling cautious. She looks so wild right now. “I wanted to thank you for the vase.”

She smiles and rests one hand against the doorframe. It is a studied pose, though he does not think she is conscious of assuming it.

“Of course. I’m glad River thought of it. I didn’t know,” she falters briefly. “I didn’t know he’d gotten you flowers, or I would have offered. They’re lovely.”

He can just see the roses, almost glowing in the dim light. From this angle, the curled petals are caught against the background of Inara’s hair where it hangs loose over her shoulder. In a glance, he looks from their luminous white, to the night of her hair, to her pale face.

“Yes,” he says simply. “They are.”

A smile that is closer to a shadow passes across her face, and Inara takes her leave of him with polite phrases that barely register on his conscious mind. The words are less than bird shadows on a lake, supremely unimportant when compared to the pain she cannot quite conceal. Or perhaps she isn’t even trying.

When she is gone, he walks into his room and sinks onto his bed. The day is going too quickly for him. He knew–who didn’t?–that Inara and Mal had some… Something. He hadn’t expected Inara to admit it, by word or sign, ever. Least of all to him.

Exhaustion pulses through him in a single wave that leaves him feeling drained and unable to cope. He doesn’t want Inara’s secrets. Any of them. He doesn’t want to do what he knows he should do.

He should go to her. They are friends, after all. Aren’t they? He should let her talk, if she’s willing to talk. He knows, almost without thought, that Inara will never talk to Kaylee about this. The only reason she might possibly talk to him is because he already knows.

Later. Maybe. He can’t face it now. His selfishness only makes him feel worse, but still he does not move.

He is still sitting there when River slips in, moving noiselessly, a skill she seems to have picked up during her imprisonment. Simon remembers her announcing her presence as a child with laughter or dramatic tears or the pounding of running feet. She was never silent.

She strokes the roses. “They needed water. It’s good to give them what they need.”

On the scale of obscurity that River usually operates on, this hardly even registers. Her meaning is all too clear.

“I can’t give everyone what they need, River. Not all the time. No one’s perfect.”

She does a pirouette, going en pointe in her steel-toed boots for a bare second. The leather flexes and wrinkles into a lump behind the heel, nearly flat from the toe on up. She comes to sit beside him and puts her arms around his waist. Her head leans trustingly against his shoulder.

“Perfect is a relative word,” she says. “It has no objective meaning.”

He smiles against her hair. She’s right, as usual.

*

After supper, Simon tracks Mal to the cargo bay. He has been over the fight–their first fight, his mind insists on calling it, though it is certainly _not_ their first–in his head a dozen times. His fault, he has decided. Not because he was wrong, but because he knows better. Mal will fight if attacked. He will never back down, and he will aim for whatever areas are the most vulnerable. He does not, will never, fight fair.

Therefore, no matter how much it pisses Simon off, it is up to him to find a better way to make his point.

He moves to stand behind Mal, takes a deep breath, and hopes for the best.

“It was a stupid fight.”

Mal does not turn to face him, but pauses in the act of lifting a crate into a storage locker.

“Sure was a fast one. Hardly realized we were having it before we were right in the middle. Then you were gone.”

“I…didn’t want to make things worse. I won’t apologize for what I said, but I will apologize for the way I said it. I could have been more tactful.”

Mal puts the crate down. His back is stiff, and his hand is clenched on the storage locker. Simon wants to leave, suddenly. Wishes he hadn’t come at all. He should have given Mal more time.

Mal turns halfway, not quite looking at Simon. “How about if you don’t apologize at all. Then I won’t have to either.”

He doesn’t look happy about making the offer, but he is at least making it. It’s a far better deal than Simon was expecting. He wonders if Mal will continue to be this reasonable. Shepherd Book might have a miracle to report next time he makes it back to his abbey.

“Deal.”

Mal lets go of his grip on the storage locker and turns fully. He won’t quite meet Simon’s eyes, but he reaches for him. Pulls him closer, one hand on his hip, fingers curled inside the waistband of Simon’s pants.

“Good.”

A scuffed footfall tells them they are not alone. Simon turns to see Jayne, arms crossed, grinning at them.

“Ain’t you two cute. And right out here in public, too. If you were looking for an audience, Mal, all you had to do was ask.”

Simon would have moved away, but Mal holds him where he is.

“Take a walk, Jayne.”

“In a minute. Zoe says to tell you Viktor was right about them two Alliance ships. They’re slower than us, but it’ll be a hard burn to make Eos first. Wash is getting on that. Good thing you got them two to look after things while you’re all distracted and such.”

A leer accompanies this last remark, but Jayne’s face twists before he turns away, the leer turning to a dark scowl. He stomps out of the cargo bay.

Simon turns to Mal to gage his response. Mal is watching Jayne’s retreating back with a frown. His hand is still at Simon’s waist, but clearly only because he has forgotten to remove it.

“He doesn’t seem happy.”

Mal look at him as if startled to be reminded of his presence. “He’ll get used to it. Everyone will.”

“But no one’s likely to make as much trouble as Jayne will if he doesn’t.”

Mal smiles at him. “Not true, in fact. If Zoe didn’t approve, then we’d be in real trouble.”

“If Zoe didn’t approve, you wouldn’t have asked me to stay.”

He hasn’t thought about it before, but as he says it, he knows it is true. He could be dispirited by the thought that Mal would choose Zoe’s opinion over him, but he is not. He has Zoe’s approval, and his time on Serenity has shown him that is no small thing.

Apparently, Mal hasn’t thought about it either. His face is thoughtful as he answers.

“Guess you’re right. She did have a few things to say on the subject, at that.”

Wonders vaguely what those things might have been, but Mal’s hand tightening at his waist is far more important at the moment.

“My room’s close,” he says. “I’d rather Jayne didn’t interrupt us again.”

“Lead the way, Doc. I’m right on your tail.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Simon suppresses a smile at Mal’s snort of surprised laughter and heads for his room.

*

Simon’s eyes are closed. Mal is behind him, hands down his pants, cupping his ass. The door is barely closed behind them. Simon knows he should lock it, but he’s going to have to hope that Mal will think of that. All he can do himself is lean back against solid warmth and moan.

Strong hands knead his ass, a slow, building rhythm. One of Mal’s hands shifts to his hips, and he is pulled back hard. Lips graze his ear, his temple.

“Want you,” Mal says.

“I would never have–” He breaks off in a gasp as Mal’s fingers rub against his entrance. “G-guessed.”

“Really, Simon. Want you so bad. You got no idea.”

Mal is kissing and licking at his neck, driving him to distraction.

“I–oh. I think I might have some.”

Mal pulls his hands out of Simon’s pants and runs them up under his shirt. Simon feels himself slipping into the same state he was in last night. Only feeling, all thought lost before Mal’s onslaught.

“Mal…”

“Hmm?”

“Mal, wait.”

“Don’t want to wait.”

Simon’s shirt is gone now, his pants pushed down around his hips.

With a gasp, he rips himself away from Mal’s warmth and turns to face him, breathing hard.

The lust in Mal’s eyes falls away to be replaced by uncertainty. It’s a look that Simon isn’t sure he’s ever seen on Mal’s face before. He smiles quickly and lays a hand on Mal’s chest in reassurance.

“What–?”

“You had your chance last night. Tonight it’s my turn.”

Mal gives him a half smile. “Could have been your turn this morning.”

Simon steps closer. “Let’s not talk about that right now.”

“You had plenty to say earlier.”

Simon grabs Mal’s suspenders and yanks, hard enough that Mal takes an involuntary step toward him. It puts them chest to chest. Simon holds Mal’s gaze and pulls the suspenders off his shoulders slowly, deliberately. Unbuttons his pants. Leans up to steal a kiss.

“We’re not going to fight right now.” His lips brush Mal’s as he speaks. “So shut up.”

Mal makes a vague sound of agreement as he takes Simon’s mouth, kissing him hard, near-bruising pressure of lips and invading tongue. Simon gets them turned around somehow, walking Mal backward toward the bed as he fights to keep some semblance of his sanity through this unending kiss.

If Mal wasn’t so hungry for him… But he wouldn’t change that. Not for anything.

And so they fall onto the bed, neither of them in control any more. Simon gets Mal’s elbow in his side, and judging from Mal’s grunt, some sharper part of Simon’s anatomy has scored a hit as well.

“Sorry,” they mumble at the same moment. And look at each other. And smile.

When Mal smiles at him like that, Simon can’t doubt that he made the right choice.

Cradled between Mal’s legs, Simon pushes himself up Mal’s body to resume their kiss. Mal’s hands move through his hair, fingers stroking lightly along the back of his neck, more firmly down his back. Simon hums contentment into Mal’s mouth, letting Mal touch him as he will while Simon reaches for the tube in the drawer of his bed side table.

He gets hold of it and breaks off the kiss with a messy drag of lips over Mal’s chin and down his neck. Down his chest, tasting faint salt and hard muscle just beneath the skin. Down his stomach. Mal’s skin tastes good, and the heavier, darker taste of his cock is even better.

Mal’s hand is in his hair, trying to tug him back up, but Simon won’t budge. He licks and sucks up the side of Mal’s cock, teasing around the head. He gets the cap off the tube, though his hands seem too warm and boneless for that much coordination. He warms the lube in his hand and coats his fingers with it. The sound Mal makes when he slides one in is worth the slight trouble of the sneak attack.

Two fingers, Mal’s body stretching easily to take him in, and Mal gasping above him.

“Simon, oh– Oh fuck, don’t stop, more–”

More is what Simon wants, too, and he’s not about to stop. He kneels, catching Mal’s legs over his shoulders and bringing them up with him. One last twist, and he withdraws his fingers and slicks his cock.

He looks at himself poised at the entrance to Mal’s body, looks up to Mal’s face, flushed and open. Pushes in. He meant to stop and give Mal time to adjust, but Mal doesn’t seem to need it, and that’s good, because Simon doesn’t think he _can_ stop. The slick heat and tight grip and Mal looking at him with parted lips wet from his kisses–it’s too good, too perfect.

He slides into Mal’s body and out again, feeling loss and cold each time he pulls back, wishing there was some way to go deep and then deeper. He pauses inside, twists his hips and watches Mal bite his lip and close his eyes.

That’s almost enough for him right there. He looks away, closes a hand around Mal’s straining cock and pumps him in time with his own thrusts. He holds on, just barely, until Mal is coming in his hand, body stiff and arching toward him. Then he lets go, and sensation takes him over. He sees only white behind his eyes and hears only the rush of his own blood.

He opens his eyes slowly. Mal’s legs have slid off his shoulders, and he is leaning against Mal’s knees, one hand still loose on his cock. He pulls slowly out of Mal’s body.

Sweat is starting to dry and cool on him, and he shivers. Mal takes his wrist and pulls him down. He lets Mal hold him, stroke his back, kiss his hair. He feels his breathing and heartbeat calm and feels Mal’s do the same.

Eventually, he will have to get up and get something to clean them both off with. Eventually, he will have to find some way to talk to Mal about this job. Eventually, he will have to talk to Inara.

Eventually.

Not tonight.

He is dozing when Mal rolls him onto his side and slips out of bed. There is the sound of running water, and Simon keeps his eyes shut as a wet cloth cleans him. Mal lifts him enough to pull the covers down and gets them both settled and warm in bed.

Simon curls up against Mal’s side, half-awake now. He wonders if maybe he shouldn’t mention the job again now, while Mal’s relaxed, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

This feels so good. And it won’t last long enough.


	11. Lost and Found

Mal leans over the back of Wash's chair. "Is the spaceport clear or not, Wash? We don't have all gorram day."

Wash flips a few switches, and Serenity starts to sink down through the clouds.

"It's as clear as it's likely to get. Looks like the fighting's mostly on the other side of the city."

"Until the Alliance gets here, anyway," Mal mutters.

He thinks of the Alliance blockade of Shadow. All that winter they got no mail from off-world, no waves, no news. It was a farming moon, so they had supplies laid in. No one starved to death, but those were lean months. Fights broke out in the bars nearly every night. People were on edge, everyone too aware of what one bin of spoiled grain would mean.

"Take us down," he says.

As Serenity speeds up in her descent, Mal jogs down the stairs to the cargo bay. Jayne, Zoe, and Book are waiting for him. Neither Jayne nor Zoe looks happy, but Mal wouldn't expect them to. They're staying behind.

"Mal, you sure about this?" Jayne rubs a hand across the back of his neck. "One preacher ain't much back up, and it's a ruttin' battle zone out there."

"I'm sure. Shepherd, you armed?"

Book nods. His weapon is nowhere in evidence, but if he says he's got it, then he's likely got it. Mal nods back and turns to Zoe. He gets all the information he needs from the look they exchange. Yes, everything's ready. No, she's not happy about the plan. But she'll go along with it, at least until he screws up, and then she'll bail him out. 

All right, she's probably not actively trying to convey that last part, but it's coming through loud and clear just the same. 

Mal feels Serenity settle on the ground, engines powering down. He turns to the control panel to open the airlock.

"Captain. Could I have a word with you?"

Simon's voice. Mal stops with his hand over the button, torn between irritation and a sudden wave of lust because he can remember that voice saying quite different things just this morning as Simon's hands wandered over his skin.

"Speak your piece, Doctor."

Simon comes to stand beside him. He smells so good. Mal wants to touch him, just because he can now, but he doubts Simon would appreciate it.

"Mal..." Simon sighs. "Just be careful, all right?"

Mal blinks. He was expecting a tirade like yesterday morning's, which he very much doesn't need right now. The simple concern is a surprise, as is Simon's hand squeezing his for just a moment before letting go. 

"I burned that digipaper Viktor gave me," he tells Simon. "You were right. Dangerous to keep it lying around."

He's surprised to hear himself admit that much, and Simon is too, by the look on his face.

"I'm glad." He pauses. "Thank you."

He reaches over and nudges Mal's hand aside to push the button that opens the airlock himself. He smiles, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Mal can't help leaning down to kiss him then. It's supposed to be brief, but the way Simon melts against him, even with everyone watching, makes that impossible. 

Simon is the one to break the kiss, pushing against Mal's chest and stepping back. He turns without a word. Mal watches him until he's out of the cargo bay.

"All right, people." He takes a deep breath. "Let's get going." It's something like a sixth sense that makes him turn and point a finger at Jayne. "Not one word, Jayne. Not one gorram word."

Jayne closes his mouth and smirks, but there's an edge to the expression that Mal doesn't like. Simon's right about that, too. Jayne will bear watching. But then, he always does.

Mal walks down the ramp into the crowd, Book close behind him. 

Close behind him and pointedly not saying anything. Mal can tell the difference between a man being quiet and a man not saying something that's figuring prominently in his thoughts at the current moment.

"Spit it out, preacher."

"I didn't say a word, Captain."

"No, you didn't. Which is why I'm telling you to spit it out. Whatever it is, say it. You never had a problem speaking your mind before."

"This really isn't my business."

Mal glances back at him, but is distracted by a woman with a bright pink scarf wrapped around her head and three live chickens in wicker cages. The tails of the scarf flap in the wind and in Mal's face. He ducks and bumps into one of the cages. The squawking and the woman's outraged shrieks follow them as they leave the space port.

Mal sighs. It never goes smooth. Never.

"Tell me now," he says. "Things might start going better later, and you wouldn't want to bring me down."

"Does that seem likely, Captain?"

He catches Book's half smile and returns it. "Anything's possible, so they say."

They walk on in silence for a moment. Mal has a print-out of the city map in his pocket, but he doesn't think he'll need it. Their route to the convent is simple enough. He's not worried about getting lost.

No, he's worried about the way the streets are suddenly emptying out. 

"I think later might be a better time, Captain."

"I think you might be right."

As they turn the next corner, Mal spots a squad of riot troops jogging down the street toward them. He pulls Book back and into a doorway. The troops turn the corner before reaching them and pass out of sight. 

Mal and Book exchange a look. Mal makes sure he has clear access to his holster. He sees Book's fingers twitch toward his own concealed weapon. 

"Sure you can handle this, preacher? Not too late to go back."

"I'm just fine, Captain."

He looks just fine. And Zoe said he was more than just fine during both invasions of the skyplex. She wasn't happy about being left behind, but not because she thought Book couldn't handle himself. Zoe never likes being left behind. 

Mal doesn't like leaving her either, but the fewer people the better on this job. Book gives some credence to their story about the girl's guardian transferring her to another religious school off-world. Mal curses Viktor for the twenty-seventh time for not giving them the proper papers.

It's possible the hun dan contacted the school already and neglected to tell them, but Mal's not about to count on it. They have faked-up papers that'll pass if no one looks too hard. Jayne did a pretty good job on them.

"Right. Let's get moving then."

They step cautiously around the corner, and this time the street is empty. 

"Is there a damn curfew on this planet?" Mal wonders out loud.

"It's midday. I'd say it's more likely they're just scared."

The street echoes with their steps, and Mal tries to walk more quietly. Book seems to be doing a better job of that than he is, one of his many talents. Mal's not going to ask. They'll get into Book's past someday, but today isn't that day. 

"That's it."

Mal looks where Book's pointing. The building is low and sprawling in a block of high-rises. Vines climb over the stone wall that surrounds it.

Mal walks up to the gate and rings the bell. It's an actual bell, as large as his arm from wrist to elbow, with graffiti scrawled over it. Its tone is deep, and loud enough to make Mal nervous. He looks up and down the deserted street and back toward the door. He can hear no one moving inside. 

"Who are you? What do you want?"

The voice comes from above them, and when Mal looks up, he see a speaker, its grill rusted, and a lens. Both are almost covered in vines. 

"We're here about one of your students," Book says, stepping forward. "Margaret Vogel."

There is a burst of static from the speaker and then silence. Mal and Book look at each other. 

Hasty footsteps sound from inside. Metal clanks and jingles, and the gate begins to swing open. It stops when there is a gap of about three feet, and a worried face in a wimple appears.

"Oh. So you haven't found her. Have you?" Hope smoothes out some of the worry lines. One hand tucks a wisp of red hair back under smooth grey fabric.

"I'm sorry, sister?" Book says.

"You-- Oh. You're not-- Who are you then?"

Book launches into their cover story, producing paperwork that he flashes fast enough that she can't possibly read it. He sounds utterly sincere and convincing. Too gorram good at lying, that man. 

She backs up as he keeps talking, letting them through the gate. Mal closes it behind them and keeps back a few steps. He's meant to be Book's bodyguard, nothing more. 

"So," Book finishes. "It seems we've come too late?"

"She disappeared two days ago, and I-- That is, we--" She presses a hand to her mouth. Mal can hear her in-drawn breath whistle between her fingers. "It was during the riots. She went to look for Brooke, but the school Brooke goes to now is miles from here, and that was the day the city guard was called out. We hoped the authorities had picked her up, but we haven't heard from them. I thought maybe they sent her to you. Since the abbey's right next to the Fortress...."

"The Fortress?" Mal asks.

"I'm sorry. It's what they call the city guard headquarters. It looks a bit like a castle, with towers and those, um, things on top." She waves her hand.

"Crenellation?" Book suggests.

"That's the word. Have you spoken with them? No, of course not. You came straight here."

Book takes her hand. "We haven't, but that's our next stop. We'll let you know what we find out."

"Thank you."

Book turns to go, but the nun catches his arm. "Take our air car. It's old, and it doesn't run so well, but you shouldn't be on the streets. It's dangerous."

She leads them through an overgrown courtyard to an air-pad. Mal recognizes the make of the aircar. It's the same one his mother had on the ranch, and it wasn't a recent model then. 

"That thing flies?"

She shoots him a look, but says nothing. She hands the keys to Book. Improbable as it seems, a few minutes later, they are airborne. 

Book gives directions while Mal drives. There isn't much traffic. The skies are almost as deserted as the streets. Mal doesn't ask how Book knows where to go. 

"How long till we get there?" Mal asks.

"Not long."

"You want to tell me whatever it is you were going to tell me?"

"If you insist. It hasn't gotten to be any more my business than it was an hour ago."

"I insist."

Book opens his mouth, but what he says is, "Dive!"

Mal slams the control stick forward without waiting to see why. He's skimming along the tops of the buildings when he hears sirens, followed by a voice over a loudspeaker. 

"You are violating controlled airspace! You will turn around and follow this drone to--" It cuts off.

"What the hell?"

"Patrol drone," Book says. "The new models are smarter, but the old ones lose you if you drop below their sensor fields. Just keep low for a while."

It's exciting flying, and Mal would prefer Wash was the one navigating just over and sometimes between buildings, but he doesn't hit anything, so he figures he's not doing too badly. 

Book points. "That's the Fortress, and there's the abbey."

Mal lowers the landing gear and puts them down neatly in the middle of the abbey courtyard. It's a nice place, neat gardens, well taken care of. All in all, though, he could do without the three guys in brown robes pointing guns at him. 

He raises his hands, slowly. Book does the same.

"Is this how you treat a visiting shepherd on Eos these days?" Book asks.

The oldest of the monks steps forward. The fringe of hair around his bald head is white, and his stomach sticks out enough that he probably has only vague memories of what his feet look like, but his eyes are sharp and hard, the same cold grey as the pistol he has trained on Mal's chest. 

"Our brothers are always welcome. Where do you hail from and what's your name?"

"Shepherd Book, Southdown Abbey, Persephone."

"You're a long way from home, Shepherd."

"I go where I'm needed."

"And the abbot there, old Bartholomew, how's he doing?"

"The abbot at Southdown has been Jacques Molay these past ten years, friend. You must be mixed up."

The monk smiles very slightly and lowers his weapon. "All right, Shepherd. You win. Though I'd be interested to know if the abbot would know your name if I waved him."

"He would at that. And unless you're going to call him right now, perhaps we could know yours?"

"Brother Peter. My friends Matthew and Ezekiel." He nods in turn to the other two. Matthew wears his greying hair in a ponytail and looks like he'll be perfectly happy to shoot anyone Peter tells him to shoot. Ezekiel is just a kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His hair is brown and so are his eyes. He looks about ready to wet himself. The hand that holds his gun is shaking. 

"Put it away, Zeke," Peter says. Zeke does, looking relieved. Peter purses his lips. "And your companion?"

"My bodyguard, Mal Tyson," Books says.

So Book doesn't trust these people any further than Mal does. Interesting. Or maybe it's just distrust returned for distrust.

"Well, Shepherd, Mr. Tyson, you all come inside and we'll discuss things."

"Rather not," Book says. "We're looking for some information, and we'll be out of your way once we get it."

Peter smiles a thin smile. "I think you'd better come on in."

The guns are not raised again, but they are emphatically there. Book and Mal follow Peter inside. 

A thought occurs to Mal, and he leans over to speak in Book's ear. "Thought I heard you say once your Abbot's name _is_ Bartholomew."

Book just barely smiles. "It is, captain. It is."

"So what the tianxiaode--"

"Patience," Book says, looking straight ahead. "A little patience, captain. That's all I'm asking."

Mal nods. He doesn't see that he has much choice. 

Once inside, Brother Zeke turns off into a wood-paneled room lined with benches around the walls and gestures for Mal to follow him. Mal takes in Book's nod and calm eyes and sighs. Book, Peter, and Matthew keep on going until he can't hear their footsteps anymore. 

Mal sinks onto a bench and stretches his legs out in front of him. "So, Zeke. Up for a game of cards? I'm thinking we'll be here a while."

***

Mal is dozing, hand on the butt of his gun, by the time Book gets back. Zeke is a lousy card player. Winning every time ought to be more fun, but it's just downright boring. He was considering shooting something just to hear the noise and wonders if this is how Jayne feels all the time. That thought makes him calm down a little. 

The door creaks open. Book steps through and motions Zeke out. He sits next to Mal. He looks tired, but unhurt. The door shuts again, and they are alone. 

Mal looks at his shepherd and waits. He's waiting patiently right now, but that could change anytime, and he's pretty sure Book knows it. 

"They're going to help us," Books says.

"Good news. Why?"

Book sighs. He digs in his pocket for a second and pulls out his ident card. He passes it to Mal. 

Mal's not one to go sneaking around, poking into business that ain't none of his, but if he was, this would've been first on his list of things to poke into. He stares at it, expecting much more than the unflattering photograph of Book and the line underneath that reads _Occupation: Shepherd_.

He glances up. "What--" he starts, but Book is pointing towards three letters in red at the top right-hand corner: PKX. 

"That's what got me treatment," Book says. "I know you were wondering. It was good of you not to ask."

"Not my business," Mal says automatically. 

"Per-maybe-haps," Book says, smiling. "Do you intend to go on not asking?"

"You can tell me or not," Mal says shortly. He doesn't like playing games at the best of times. 

"It's a religious organization," Book says.

Mal can't help asking. "What's the Alliance care about any religion, organized or not?"

"Because this particular organization has given them a not inconsequential amount of support over the years."

Mal blinks and feels his stomach tighten. "You telling me you're a purple belly, Shepherd?" If this is a trap, he's walked right into it, and he can't see any way out. But if it is, it's a stupid one. It's Simon they want--Simon, who he's left back on the ship. Hardly defenseless with Zoe and Jayne there, but...

Book is shaking his head, but someone knocks on the door before he can answer. Mal jumps up and opens it. 

Brother Zeke comes in, staggering under a tray full of food that Mal has no intention of eating until he gets some gorram answers. He lets Book take the tray and set it down. 

"Brother Peter says we'll be ready in an hour," Zeke says. He gives a little half-bow and hurries out, pulling the door closed behind him. 

"I never fought for the Alliance," Books says quietly into the silence that follows. 

Mal relaxes, but only slightly. "Just supported them. Whatever that means."

"I understand their support was mostly financial. I didn't join the order until after the war was over."

Whatever else Book is, Mal reminds himself, he's also on Mal's crew, and he's put himself on the line for all of them more than once. Still, Mal's glad to know that Book didn't fight in the war. Everyone has a past, and he's trying to be fair, but there's a limit to his fairness when it comes to the Alliance. 

Mal looks over the tray and picks up a piece of bread. He didn't have much breakfast, and this day is looking longer all the time. 

"So, he says. "They handed over a few credits and won the Alliance's undying support? The Alliance has a short memory when it comes to allies and a damn long one when it comes to enemies."

"It was a considerable amount of money, donated at key points in the war. The order was quite concerned that the Alliance should win."

Mal stops with the bread halfway to his mouth. And how does that make you not a purple belly, he wants to say. "Why should they care?" he asks instead.

"It wasn't support of the Alliance specifically, captain. They didn't believe the Independents had the resources or organization needed to prevail. The order's been around for a long time, and they've always found it advantageous to be on the winning side."

Mal takes a bite and chews because it seems more polite than saying what's on his mind. He takes another bite, this times with some soft, white cheese. Book is watching him carefully. He swallows. 

"So that's why you gave the wrong name to Peter. Some kind of code to tell him you're in the know."

"Yes."

"And they're helping us?"

Book takes his time in answering, finally looking up from the food to meet Mal's eyes. "The Alliance has committed acts that some among the order feel we cannot support."

"So now they got a moral objection? They didn't notice the civillians being murdered during the war?"

"That was war, Captain. They have done worse since then. But more to the point, the Council believes that the Alliance is failing. They do not support losers."

Mal raises an eyebrow. "But they're supporting us?"

"They have their reasons."

And not another word can Mal get out of him.

***

Less than an hour later, Book, Mal, and Brother Peter are walking through a damp tunnel shored up by rotting timber. For light, they have a hurricane lamp and the soft glow of Peter's pipe. 

Mal is not one for trusting the authorities, granted, but breaking into a castle full of Feds to look for a girl who, if she's there, hasn't even committed a crime, seems like overkill to him. The worst the girl did was break curfew. The Feds should be glad to get rid of her and free up a cell. 

But Peter seems to think otherwise, and Book trusts him, and Mal, more or less, trusts Book. So he's stuck here in the dark. 

"Almost there," Book whispers, and points up ahead to a small wooden door, the dead end of the tunnel. 

Peter lifts the glass on the hurricane lamp and blows it out. In the pitch black, Mal listens to the groan of the wood beams and the breathing of the two men ahead of him. One of them, probably Peter, edges toward the door and tugs it open. 

The door swings in without a sound. Mal wonders how often this door is used, how often the hinges are oiled for it to be so silent. Wonders what business Peter has with the Feds. 

In the dim light spilling from the door, they enter the Fortress. The walls inside are built of stone blocks, the floors of wide, grey flagstones. They echo with each step until all three of them yank their boots off and walk along in stocking feet. 

It's that echo that saves them a few minutes later when they hear someone striding along the hall towards them and duck into an empty room just in time. Two men, Mal realizes, but their steps are almost in sync. He looks out through the small grille in the door after they pass. 

Both are tall and thin, wearing black suits and polished shoes. They wear blue gloves on their hands. 

"Huh," Mal mutters to himself, and immediately gets hushed by Peter. Some memory pokes at him, but he can't get hold of it. 

"Are they gone?"

Mal nods, and the three of them step back out into the hall. It stretches forty, maybe fifty feet in front of them, empty and unbroken by side passages. Doors grow farther apart on either side until the last twenty feet are bare stone wall and nothing else. Mal walks backwards, hand on his gun, as if one shot wouldn't bring everyone in this place running. 

Finally, they round the corner. Peter and Book stop, and Mal catches up, looking over Book's shoulder. 

Ahead of them is another stretch of hallway, shorter than the last, and broken in half by a wall of iron bars. Just on this side of the bars, a door stands open. From it comes a warm, flickering light and the sound of voices. 

Mal shoulders carefully past Book and Peter and motions them to stay quiet. He creeps toward the light, not bothering to look back and see the inevitable protests. Anything he can learn at this point will be more than they know. Not to mention he's curious about the men in the blue gloves, and they came from this direction. If he'd just been paid a visit by two guys in blue gloves, that's what he'd be talking about. 

Sure enough, the first thing he hears is, "Didja see those two freaks? Christ, man. Like walking corpses. Glad they were wearing those gloves. I wouldn't have wanted to shake their hands, that's for ruttin' sure."

Mal agrees silently, and he only saw them from the back. 

A second voice answers, this one female, softer, more thoughtful. "I wonder what they wanted the girl for."

"I wonder why they didn't just goddamn take her with them. I don't wanna see them again, thanks."

"I suppose they wanted to wait until Sarge got back. He's the only one who really talked to her. But she's just a kid. What could she have done? They've got to be intelligence. Or really high level military, anyway. Deek sounded scared when I called in to confirm their ID."

"Deek's scared of squirrels."

The woman snorts with laughter. "Squirrels, yeah. But not generally of the brass."

"Aw, who gives a damn. The girl's better off with them anyway. There's no decent food left in this city and what there is don't deliver no more. What are we having for supper?"

Mal edges back to his companions and pulls them back around the corner. 

"They're holding the girl in one of the cells back there."

"You sure?" Peter asks. 

"I'm sure," Mal says. It's good odds, anyway, and he's tired of Peter looking like he knows everything. 

"How many?" Book asks.

"Only two. Let's do it."

"Wait," Peter hisses, but Mal and Book are already around the corner and walking fast. 

"I'll take the left," Mal says. "You take the right."

Book nods and slips across the open doorway like a shadow.

They pause, one on either side of the door. Mal counts down, gives a nod. They move.

***

Mal leans back against the stone wall and crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah...that went well."

Book shrugs. "At least Peter got away."

"Great. So a bunch of monks--no offense--can break us out of jail?"

"Monks with guns," Book says, imperturbable. 

"Whatever. Guns don't do much good against stasis fields. In case you didn't notice."

"I did."

Book is rubbing his hands together slowly, turning them over to look at the palms. Mal feels an urge to do the same, but resists. He knows the lingering pins-and-needles sensation is just an effect of the stasis field. It will pass. Meanwhile, it feels like he has ants crawling all over his hands and feet. 

"So tell me," he orders Book. "We don't look likely to get interrupted any time soon."

Book takes a deep breath and smoothes his hands down his thighs. "It's about Simon. And your...relationship with him."

"If you tell me to stop living in sin and get hitched, preacher, we're gonna have a problem. I ain't the marrying type."

Book smiles very slightly. "Nothing like that, Captain. I just wonder if this is the wisest idea for both of you. Considering the doctor's position."

"Because he's on the run? Hell, we all are, more or less. They might not arrest you or Kaylee or Inara on sight, but the rest of us ain't too terribly popular with the law these days."

"What I mean is that Simon is relying on you and your crew for protection. Protection which he and his sister need badly. A lovers' quarrel could have consequences beyond a few nights sleeping on the couch."

"If you think I'd kick him out just because--"

"I don't, Captain. I think he might leave. And although he is a capable young man, he's working under a heavy handicap. They would both be in danger if they left."

Mal knows that. None of it's news. Simon almost left once already, and though he said it wasn't because of Mal, Mal's not entirely sure he believes that. If they fought, if they fell out, yes, Simon might leave. 

"Tell me how that's any of your gorram business, Shepherd?"

Book sighs. "I told you it wasn't, Captain."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, it's not."

Books smiles silently. 

"Besides," Mal says. "That's not gonna happen. Doc's too sensible for that."

A wider smile. "Even if you're not?"

"Even if--hey, I'm plenty sensible! Malcolm Sensible Reynolds, that's--"

"Quiet."

"Excuse me?" But Mal doesn't get any further. Book's face is too serious. "What?"

Book points. 

At the base of the wall, one stone block is inching out of its position and into their cell. 

Mal and Book glance at each other, and then they're both moving to kneel on either side of it. It's a small stone, only about a foot square. Not big enough to provide an escape route, even assuming there's not just another cell on the other side of it.

The stone emerges completely. A hand follows and pushes it to one side. As Mal watches, the hand is withdrawn and a head comes through. The girl has dark, curly hair and Viktor's eyes. Her eyes grow wide, and she tries to scoot back the way she came. 

"Margaret Vogel, I presume?" Mal says. 

She stops. "Who are you?"

"We were sent by your benefactor," Book says. "To take you to a new school. On a slightly more stable planet."

She looks around the cell. "Good job," she says. 

"Hey. We've got a plan," Mal says. 

Book raises an eyebrow at him. 

Mal points a warning finger at both of them. 

"You go sit in your cell, young lady. We'll be breaking you out shortly."

She looks skeptical, but withdraws all the same. 

"Well," says Book. 

"Well," says Mal. 

They look at each other. 

"Reckon we'd better find a way out."

Book nods. "Any suggestions?"

In the distance, there is the dull roar of an explosion. Mal can feel the vibration of it, and apparently so can the girl. He hears a stifled squeaky noise from the hole in the wall, not quite a scream. 

"Think that's the cavalry?" he asks Book. 

Book shrugs in answer and moves to stand in the middle of the room, hands folded in front of him, looking harmless. Mal takes his cue and stands next to the door, back pressed against the wall. 

Footsteps pound down the hallway, and when the door cracks open against the wall, Mal is ready. He throws a punch that lands squarely on the first guy's chin.

Brother Peter gives him a resentful look before sliding gracelessly to the floor. 

Mal shakes his hand out. "Hard headed bastard."

Zeke hauls Peter off the floor. "Hurry! They're coming."

"The girl's next door," Book says. 

"Got her," a new voice calls. 

Zeke pulls Mal's arm. "We need to go. Now."

Book drapes Peter's other arm over his shoulder, and he and Zeke drag him down the hall. Mal looks back to see Matthew pulling the girl along by her arm. She doesn't look entirely happy about her rescue, but that's fair enough. Mal wouldn't be entirely happy to be rescued by this lot either. Isn't, in fact. 

They're being too damn loud, and Matthew still looks trigger-happy, a gleam in his eyes that Mal saw too many times during the war. 

Mal waits for Matthew to catch up and takes the girl from him, maintaining a fairly good grip on her arm himself. He's gone to a lot of trouble for her, and the money Viktor's paying him is starting to seem more and more in line with the job. 

They run down the hall, Matthew bringing up the rear, Mal wishing desperately that he had a weapon instead of a sulky teenager, but things never do go smooth. They pass the gate and the guard-room, round the corner to the long hall--and stop. 

Mal nearly runs into Book, and Matthew does run into him. Over Book's shoulder, Mal sees three bodies. He recognizes the two guards from last night. The third is an older man. They lie close enough that their blood has pooled together, cutting a river cut across the hallway. 

A few meters beyond the bodies stand the two men Mal saw last night, same suits, same blue gloves on their hands. 

Mal hears Zeke whispering to Peter and sees the older monk raise his head just as one of the Blue Gloves raises a small metal tube. He's holding it like it's a weapon. 

Peter jerks his head up and says a few words no holy man should say. His hand goes to his pocket and he lobs something that looks like a grenade down the hall. Then he turns, staggering but moving under his own power, and lunges back the way they came. 

"Out the front door, through the guard-room," he says. "It's the only way now."

Mal expects an explosion, but hears nothing from behind them. "What the hell was that?"

"EMP grenade. Book can explain."

They emerge into sunlight so bright it stings his eyes. Matthew immediately takes aim and shoots down the two patrol drones that appear, and Peter points down the street. 

"There's an aircar parked down the next alley. Get back to your ship, and _don't_ let them catch up with you."

"We got cargo to--"

"Your cargo is already on board, Captain Reynolds." Peter smiles thinly. "We did some checking on you. Now get out of here and get off this planet."

Peter nods curtly to Matthew, who tosses Mal his weapon with obvious regret. Peter, Zeke, and Matthew take off running. 

Mal shakes his head. "All right. Let's get out of here."

***

They arrive back at Serenity only a few hundred meters ahead of a howling siren. The cargo bay door is open, and Mal drives straight in, yelling orders before they come to a stop. 

"Get us locked up tight, and get us in the air! Fast!"

Wash must've been ready. Mal can feel the lift off only seconds later. 

Mal leaves Book with Viktor's sister and sprints up to the bridge. He hangs over Wash's shoulder until they're out of the world and, for a miracle, free of pursuit. 

"Did you get her?" Wash asks. 

"We got her. You got the package, right?"

"Zoe and Jayne should be uncrating it now to check on it. Delivered by a couple of shepherds. Said they were friends of Book's." He takes aim at Mal, finger pointed like a gun. "Looked like they'd be just as handy with the kneecaps, too."

"I don't know about friends, but--"

Simon's voice on the comm cuts him off. "Captain, I think you should get down here. Now."

He takes off down the stairs, Wash grumbling as he goes. "Fine, just leave me all alone to fly the ship. What do you think I am, a pilot--oh, wait."

For a second, it's hard to place why the scene in the cargo bay looks so familiar, but only for a second.

Jayne's standing right behind Simon, though he hasn't got him in a headlock this time. Zoe's on the stairs. Inara's looking on from the sidelines. The focus of their attention is a large, metal box. 

Silence. No one moves. 

At least until Kaylee comes through the door and waves. "Hey, Captain! Glad you're back and all. I came to meet the new girl--" Then she, too, sees the metal box and stops in mid-sentence. 

Margaret Vogel looks around at them and frowns. "What's the matter with you people? Haven't you ever seen a cryochamber before?"


	12. Back Up

Simon is aware of everyone else exchanging glances. He himself cannot take his eyes off the cryochamber. If it wasn't for the girl Mal brought back, this could be that day, almost a year ago now. 

He walks forward and looks at the markings on the front panel. It's even the same make and model as River's was. 

"I'm going to open it," he hears himself say. Mal grunts, which Simon chooses to take as approval. He's not sure he'd care if it wasn't. 

It could be anyone in there, really. Or anything. It _can't_ be his sister. River is in her room, drawing. He left her only minutes ago. There is no logical reason for his hands to be shaking. 

He releases the vacuum lock and pushes back the lid with more force than he had intended. It clatters to the floor. 

Nitrogen vapor rises like steam from the naked body curled inside. The life signs spike wildly as stasis ends. The body's curves say this is a woman. No, a girl, gangly with adolescence, arms and legs which she will have to grow into. A curtain of dark hair shelters her face, so painfully like River that Simon has to push it aside and prove his mistake. 

She sits up the second he touches her. Her face is River's, and so is her scream, but she doesn't scramble out of the box into his arms. She wraps her arms around herself, covering her breasts. He can see her shaking. 

"Who are you people?" Her voice is shaking as well. "Where are my clothes? What's going on?"

There is a crate behind him, and Simon sits heavily on it. He will not faint. He stares fixedly at the metal floor until the darkness around the edges of his vision retreats. 

When he looks up, Mal is standing in front of him, blocking his view. 

"You okay there, doc?"

He nods. "Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be okay?" The pitch of his voice is rising, and he forces himself to bring it under control. "I am perfectly all right, captain."

"Uh huh."

Simon stands up to prove it and only has to lean on Mal's proffered arm for a second while his blood pressure settles. He is absolutely fine. 

Now that he's standing, he can see her. Inara, once again, has come to the rescue, wrapping a fringed shawl around her shoulders and helping her out of the cryochamber. There is a second of startled, wide-eyed stillnes from Viktor's sister, but then she runs over and hugs not-River tightly around the waist. 

"Brooke! You're okay! I-- I thought they'd _killed_ you or something, and they asked me all these questions, and I didn't know what to say-- _Are_ you okay?"

The girl, not-River, Brooke-- _Brooke?_ \--stammers something out, but the net meaning of her words is that she doesn't know. Of course she doesn't; she's just been frozen and thawed. She needs a doctor to look her over. 

Simon walks determinedly towards her, Mal all but hovering at his elbow. 

"My name is Simon Tam," he says gently. "I'm a doctor. I'd like to check you over if that's all right?"

She nods, looking relieved. There is no sign of recognition on her face. She follows him to the infirmary, Viktor's sister trailing in their wake. 

Simon goes through the appropriate tests. Cardiac and pulmonary function normal. She complains of weakness and muscle pain, but that's to be expected. 

"It will pass," he tells her. He forces a smile. "If it's still bothering you in a day or two, come see me about it."

"Thank you," she says, and smiles a smile so like River's--before--that his throat aches with it. 

Things have evidently been decided while he was working. Inara guides the two girls off and upstairs to her shuttle. Simon hopes fervently that they will stay there. He sits down on the exam table and covers his face with his hands. 

Mal leans against the edge of the table and puts an arm around him. "How are you holding up?"

"Do you think--" he asks blindly, hoping for any answer but the obvious truth. "Do you think it could be coincidence?"

"Two by two," River whispers. "Hands of blue." She's standing in the doorway, pale as a ghost, thinner than she should be. Staring at both of them with unreadable eyes. 

"No," Mal says quietly. "I don't think it's a coincidence. Come on, we need to have a crew meeting." He nods to River. "You too, girl."

She smiles. "Me too, girl. Me two girl. I saw her coming."

***

They gather around the dining room table, less Inara and their two guests. Simon holds River's hand under the table, more for his own reassurance than for hers. 

Mal tells his story, and when he gets to the part about the men in the blue gloves, River's hand tightens. Simon can feel her trembling. 

"Two by two, hands of blue," she mutters. 

Mal looks at her. "Yeah. That's what I was trying to remember when I saw them. Reckon they've got something to do with you and your brother."

River looks down at the table and makes no reply. Her hand is cold. Simon wants to tell Mal to shut up, that he's scaring her, but they need to talk about this. And River is right to be scared. 

"This religious organization," Simon starts. "What do they--"

Book cuts him off. "They called themselves Safe Passage when they contacted you. They signed their waves 'A concerned friend.'"

Simon stares at him. "You..."

"Preacher," Mal says, in his explain-yourself-right-now voice. 

"I was one of the people who helped retrieve your sister from the Academy. And I was the one selected to go with you and keep you safe."

Simon is still staring. He can't stop. Around the table, the others are asking questions, one piled over another, making them all impossible to answer. 

Mal looks less gobsmacked than the rest, eyes narrowed, thumb running along his chin as it does when he is thinking hard. Simon can almost hear the scrape of skin against five o'clock shadow. He hopes Mal's thought process turns up something useful because he himself has nothing. 

"I remember," River says quietly. Everyone falls silent as they so often do when she speaks. "Bee sting in my neck." She touches her throat, the slight bulge of her carotid artery. "Then darkness. No pain. Then light." She frowns. "And hair."

Book smiles. "I did actually cut it before I came on board at Evesdown."

Simon makes his voice work at last, because everyone is clearly missing the point. 

"We can't just give her to Viktor," he says. Now he is getting the looks his crazy sister usually gets. 

"Why the hell not?" Jayne asks. "Got fifty grand says we can. Or don't got it yet, so all the more reason."

"She's-- Did you see her? Did you look? That's River. They made a clone, a copy, a--"

"A back up," Book says quietly. "In case they made a mistake with the original."

Simon rests his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. "We can't give her to him. He's going to sell her to the Feds. You know he is."

"Calm down, doctor," Mal says. "We don't know that for a fact. We don't know anything yet."

"We know he has an empire to consolidate. The money could hardly hurt. Can you think of a reason why he _wouldn't_ turn her over?"

"'Cause he'd get pinched," Jayne says into the silence that follows. "What?" he adds. "S'what happens when you call the Feds."

Mal gives him a dirty look, but nods. "Yeah, but it wouldn't be him getting pinched. He ain't hardly gonna make the trade himself."

Wash, silent until now raises a hand. "Ah, excuse me? Why are we even talking about this? The girl may as well be River. She's family. We can't hand her over to some stranger. Especially not some stranger who kills people for fun and profit." 

"If we don't give her to him," Zoe says quietly, "it'll be like Niska all over again. Except Viktor's smarter."

Several faces around the table pale, including, Simon suspects, his own. Kaylee excuses herself with a mumbled apology and leaves the room. 

Mal places his hands on the table, palms down. "Point is, we don't know." He looks at Book. "Do we? You're being awful quiet over there. Would your buddies let Viktor have her if he was just gonna sell her to the Feds?"

"Not knowingly," Book says, after a pause. "But she is his sister's friend. He may have played on that connection to deceive them." 

Jayne snorts. "Hell, if we're keeping one, why not keep the pair? What is this, Malcolm Reynolds' Home for Wayward Girls? This here's supposed to be a profitable venture, and I ain't seen no profitables in a good long while."

The horrible thing is that Jayne is right. Simon knows Mal wouldn't have taken this job unless he were desperate. Now, instead of fifty thousand, they stand to make a dangerous enemy instead. Another one. 

But they have to understand that it's not that simple. He can't let her go. It's not even an option. He opens his mouth to try to explain just as Kaylee runs through the door. 

She pants for a second to get her breath back. "'Nara's hurt. Found her knocked out in front of her shuttle." She looks at Simon. "I'll get your bag. Just hurry."

Then she's gone again, and Simon is on his feet, running. 

When he reaches Inara's side, he finds most of the crew has followed him. 

"Give me a little room, please." 

They back off, and he runs his hands over Inara's skull. There is a lump on the back of her head, heated and tender. She makes a small noise of protest as he touches it, and her eyes flutter open. 

"Inara? Do you know where you are?"

"Catwalk..." She focuses on the faces around her. "Mal, they took the shuttle."

"What?"

"The girls. Brooke turned the intercom on, and they heard too much before I could turn it off. I thought I had them convinced no one would hurt them, but..."

"Wait, please," Simon says. "Follow my finger." 

He moves it in front of her face, and her eyes track. 

"Doc, do you really think this is the time--"

"It's exactly the time, Captain. It will only take a few seconds." 

He listens to Mal ordering Wash to get back up to the bridge and try to track the shuttle. Serenity's sensors are not the best. Even a few seconds could make a difference. 

Inara's responses seem normal on all fronts, and at last, he helps her sit up. 

"But when I turned around, one of them hit me over the head," Inara finishes, looking at Mal. "I'm sorry."

"Can't be helped." Mal swears softly. "Gorrammit, how can they even fly that thing?"

"River could have flown it by the time she was seven," Simon says quietly.

Mal grunts and turns to River where she sits perched on the railing. "Do you know where they went?"

She tips her head to one side. "Can't say it yet. Not decided."

Simon wonders whether she means the girls haven't decided, or that she won't say because Mal hasn't decided whether to give them both to Viktor yet. He suspects the second. He wonders if it's a bad sign that his sister's getting easier to understand. 

Fifteen minutes later, the entire crew is packed into the bridge and looking over Wash's shoulder.

"I'm telling you, there's nothing," Wash says. "Either they set down on that planet, or they're out of range."

"Or she's rigged it so the shuttle won't show up on sensors," Simon adds. 

Wash glances at him. "She could do that?"

"River could have."

Brief silence. None of them like being reminded that Brooke is, essentially, his sister. He intends to remind them of it every chance he gets. 

"Right," Mal says. "Kaylee, Wash, if she's jamming the sensors, is there anything you can do about that?"

Kaylee nods, and Wash answers for both of them. "There's some stuff we can try."

"Then try it. And let's pick up some speed. If they're out of range, they can't be far out. And Jayne, take shuttle two and get down to that planet. You're the tracker. See what you can find."

River kicks Simon's ankle sharply. He stares at her for a second and then turns to Mal.

"I want to go with Jayne."

Mal frowns. "What for?"

"He'll underestimate her. I won't."

Mal hesitates for a second, but in the end, he nods. "Go on, then. We'll be back to pick you up in a few hours."

***

By the time they find the shuttle, Serenity is already out of radio range and Simon is beginning to wish he hadn't come. 

The forest is wet and dark; the path they are following is overgrown and only worthy to be called a path because it's not _completely_ smothered with creepers. 

And Jayne keeps sharpening his knife as he walks.

Simon flashes back to his nanny's attempts to get River to stop running around the house with scissors, pretending they were the Olympic torch. Jayne, far less graceful, seems more likely to fall and impale himself. Simon can't decide whether he's in favor of that outcome or not. 

"How can you track anything in this?" he asks. 

Jayne mutters something inaudible and makes no reply. He hasn't said two words to Simon since they left Serenity. 

"Jayne?"

Jayne lets go of a branch he was holding, which springs back to slap Simon in the face. 

"Jayne! What's wrong with you?"

"Ain't nothing wrong with _me_ , doc."

Simon stares at Jayne's broad back, lips tight. "I don't expect you to understand. I sometimes find it hard to believe you had parents, let alone a family."

Jayne stops and turns to face him. "Hey, I got parents, two of them. And a little brother and four little sisters, and ain't none of them gonna get Christmas this year if we don't make some cash soon." He turns and strides forward again, crashing through the underbrush. 

Simon catches at his sleeve, but Jayne shakes him off. 

"Your gorram fault we took this feng le job, and now you don't even wanna finish it. You and Mal between you are gonna get us all killed," he mutters.

"My fault? How is this my fault? I wasn't even at the meeting!"

"Mal never would've done it if he was thinking straight. You addled his brain with all that sexin'."

Simon stops walking and just gapes. 

Jayne stops after a few more feet and turns back to him again. "What are you just standing there for?"

"Sometimes I still cannot believe the things that come out of your mouth."

Jayne grins briefly at that. "Right back at you, doc."

They trudge on in silence. 

Simon's shirt is soaked, not from the rain, which can't reach them through the thick canopy, but from the water collected on the leaves that brush them on every side. He twists his shirttail in his hands and wrings out a small stream of water, which aids in soaking his pants. 

He sighs. "Really, how are you tracking anything at all in this? The ground's like soup." His shoes are completely ruined, though he knows better than to mention that. 

"Broken branches and such like." Jayne grunts and pauses long enough to twiddle a torn leaf between his fingers. 

Simon never would have seen it, even if he'd been looking for just that. He does, however, see the next sign Jayne points out. It is a scrap of brightly colored fabric, shot through with gold thread. It clings to a bush like a drowned butterfly.

"These ain't thorns," Jayne mutters. "Don't know how that got tore off."

It takes Simon's brain a little too long to catch onto the significance of that fact--long enough that Jayne walks right into the trap. 

The impression Simon gets is that the forest floor has risen up to swallow them both, but when the swarm of leaves settles down, it is only Jayne hanging from a tree in a pouch of fabric. It looks like Inara's bedspread. She won't be happy about that. 

"Don't move," says River's voice. 

Simon freezes. Brooke and Margaret appear on the path in front of him. Brooke is holding a gun. 

Simon raises his hands very slowly. "I don't want to hurt you," he says. "Either of you."

"We heard what you all said," Margaret says. "Nobody's selling Brooke! And why would the Alliance want her? And what did you mean about--about my brother? My brother's dead." Her voice breaks a little on the last word, and she wraps her arms around herself. 

"Just leave," Brooke says. "We'll be fine on our own."

"Sure you will," comes a muffled voice from inside Inara's bedspread. "Two little girls against the 'verse. Yeah, you'll be just peachy."

Simon looks up in time to see a glint of metal as Jayne's knife pierces the fabric. The next second, there is a large rip in the silk, and Jayne lands on the ground in a crouch. 

He straightens up and dusts himself off, sheathing his knife. 

"How you gonna make money then?" he says. "Gotta buy food. Gonna whore? Can't think of much else you can do at your age, except maybe factory work. I done that. It ain't fun."

Margaret looks still paler at the mention of prostitution. Brooke only draws herself up, her aim steady despite the weight of the gun and her thin wrists. Simon finds himself unaccountably proud. 

"I'm smart," Brooke snaps. "I'll think of something. It's none of your business."

"But it is," Simon says gently. "We were hired to take Margaret to her new school, and...well, yes, to take you somewhere as well. But that was when we thought we were delivering a package, not a person. It's different now."

"It didn't sound that different."

"I don't know how much you overheard--"

"Enough."

"--But I will not let anything happen to you."

"Why should you care?" Margaret asks.

Simon reaches slowly for his wallet and pulls out the holocard of River. He tosses it over to Brooke. 

She gives him a suspicious look, but thumbs the activation pad. River's image springs up, a 3-D picture hovering just above the surface of the card. River smiling as a baby, waving on her first day of school, hugging their parents just before she left for the Academy--and River as she is now, thin and haunted, with eyes that see too much.

Brooke lets the images cycle through twice before she turns the holocard off. 

"That's not me," she says. 

"No," Simon replies. "That's my sister. Her name is River."

Brooke raises an eyebrow. "River?"

Simon shrugs. "I assume the play on her name was someone's idea of a joke."

She lowers the gun to her side. "It's not a very good one."

"No. It's not." Simon sighs and steps forward to take the holocard back from her. "Can we get out of the rain, please? We have a lot to talk about."

***

The inside of Inara's shuttle is a wreck. The bedspread is gone, of course. Likewise, the ceiling hangings have disappeared. Simon wonders what trap they were used to set. The major pieces of furniture are untouched, bolted in place, but the smaller things and unsecured ornaments are scattered about the room, some cracked or lying in pieces on the floor. 

Jayne snorts. "So you can fly it, but you can't land it, huh?"

Brooke crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. "I'd never done it before. I'll get it right next time."

"Might not be a next time if 'Nara gets hold of you." Jayne kicks at a now-headless statue. "This place is a dump."

"Let's sit," Simon says firmly. 

He sits on the low bench by the wall, and Brooke sits a few feet away from him. Margaret slides down to sit on the floor, and Jayne sprawls on the bed with a grin. 

"Never thought I'd get a chance at this," he says. "Ain't fair she's got the best bed in the whole ship."

Simon ignores him. It's not hard. All he wants to do is look at Brooke. She's so like River. He feels a tightening in his chest, somewhere between the promise of tears and the threat of a heart attack. It's not right that emotion should cause physical pain. Some things even the most skilled doctor can't fix. 

He forces it down as he does when he has to concentrate on River as a patient and not River as his little sister. His pain won't help anyone, least of all himself. 

"We were asked to pick up cargo on Eos. We did not know that cargo was you. Was human. Mal--Malcolm Reynolds, the captain of Serenity, does not deal in slaves. It's not right to buy and sell human life. He won't hand you over if that's not what you want."

"If? Why in the 'verse would I choose to be sold to some crime lord?"

"'Cause the crime lord's your girlfriend's brother," Jayne calls from the bed. 

"My brother's dead," Margaret repeats. "He was killed with the rest of my family in the war. The rebels took our city."

"He's not dead," Simon says. He wonders how much trouble this is going to get them into with Viktor. Probably, it doesn't matter. If they don't give him Brooke, he'll want them all dead anyway, like as not. "He's the one who's been paying for your schooling all these years."

Margaret shakes her head stubbornly. "That's stupid. Why wouldn't he tell me?"

"Did you not hear the crime lord part?" Jayne rolls his eyes. "For smart girls, you're both kinda dumb."

"Brooke's the smart one," Margaret says quietly. "That's why they sent her to that school."

"The Academy?" Simon asks. "Would this be about..." He silently calculates the last time a serious attempt was made to take River back. "...Six months ago?"

Both girls nod. 

Simon slumps against the back of the bench. He can't face the task of explaining what might have happened to her if they'd been a little longer in getting her out. Hopefully, she'll never have to know. 

It does, however, give him a little more hope for Viktor's intentions. It seems counterproductive to take the girl all the way back to the skyplex when she could just as easily have been held for ransom on Eos. 

"Are you all right?" Margaret asks. "You look kind of sick."

"I feel kind of sick." He needs to get up, check and see if Serenity is close enough to contact. 

As if reading his thoughts, the radio squawks static at them from the cockpit. Jayne stands and goes forward. 

A minutes of mumbled conversation later, Jayne returns. 

"Mal's back. Viktor's here too. Mal says bring the girls straight to Viktor's ship."

Simon frowns and levers himself to his feet. "Don't be ridiculous. He said no such thing."

Simon gets no more than three feet toward the radio when Jayne pulls a gun on him.

"You just sit tight, doc. We don't need us any more enemies, and there ain't nothing soothes a man's morals like a pile of cash. The girls ain't crew. Mal'll get over it."

But there's something in Jayne's voice that says he doesn't really believe it. 

"He won't, you know," Simon says. "Mal doesn't forgive easily, and he doesn't trust easily. He must trust you, if he sent you down here. He trusts you to let him decide what's going to happen to them."

"You just shut up." Jayne stabs the gun at him in emphasis. "This whole mess is your fault anyway."

"Oh, yes," Simon says. "I forgot. For 'sexing' the captain."

"When a man gets hitched, it messes with his judgement. I'm just doing what Mal would be doing if you hadn't fucked all the sense out of him."

"Jayne--"

"You all stay put. Anyone sticks his head forward is gonna get it shot off." Jayne disappears into the cockpit. 

"I don't believe this," Simon mutters. As he says it, he feels the shuttle lurch into the air. 

The girls have moved closer together. By Brooke's side, Simon see the flash of light off metal. She looks at him questioningly and tips the gun towards Jayne. 

Simon shakes his head. "He'll be waiting for it. One of you will get shot, and I have no medical supplies here." He steps to the head of Inara's bed, close to the cockpit, but not in it. 

"Jayne?" he calls. "This is a bad idea. You know it is. You..." But winning people over with words, or with anything else, has never been his strong point. He has, as Mal once pointed out, a nearly miraculous talent for alienating people. River was always the one to make friends easily, talk anyone into anything.

He can't help looking at Brooke now, but she's not River. She clutches her gun with determination, but her face is pale and she's holding onto Margaret's hand like a lifeline. She's only a child. 

Simon sighs and sits on the bed, face in his hands. 

"You said you had sisters, right, Jayne?"

He hears an acknowledging grunt from the cockpit. 

"Would you sell one of them to Viktor? To anyone?"

"'Course not. My mama'd have my hide."

"Is that the only reason you wouldn't?"

There is a pause. "Guess not," Jayne says. 

"What about Kaylee?"

"Mal would kill me."

"But that's not the only reason, is it? You like Kaylee. Everyone likes Kaylee."

"I reckon so."

"What about River?"

"Don't like her much. Got a habit of cutting on me."

"But you wouldn't sell her to Viktor. Or to the Feds. You could have left us behind on Ariel, but you didn't. You got us out. You saved us."

There is a long silence. When Simon stands cautiously and peeks around the silk hangings, all he can see is Jayne's back and the approaching bulk of what must be Viktor's ship. 

The radio crackles again, and Simon hears Mal's voice. _Your course is off, Shuttle One. You letting the doc drive?_

The stars blur for a second as Jayne curses and yanks the steering yoke around, heading them towards Serenity. 

***

Mal is waiting for them when the shuttle door opens. Simon lets the Jayne and the girls go first. When he steps out, last, he's almost sure he's not imagining the relief on Mal's face. 

Mal puts a hand on his shoulder and leaves it there as he turns to address his crew. Everyone, unsurprisingly, is packed onto the narrow catwalk. River stands on the lower rung of the railing, holding Kaylee's hand for support, though whose is in question. River smiles at Simon and gives him a thumbs-up. 

"Viktor heard we had some trouble on Eos," Mal says. "Came to meet us halfway, I guess in case we decided the money wasn't worth it. We got two choices now. Run, or fight."

He doesn't say that Viktor has them outgunned by at least ten to one. He doesn't say that Viktor's ship can likely outrun theirs even at full burn. He doesn't say that giving up is not an option. 

He doesn't need to. 

Simon looks from face to face, and every one is resolute. Even Jayne looks resigned now, and he slips his knife to River behind Kaylee's back. Simon watches and says nothing. He can't even bring himself to be afraid at the thought of dying with these people. He feels only pride. 

Mal nods. "Right, then. We better get ready."

"Wait," Margaret says. 

Mal glances at her. "What now?"

"I want to see him. If he's really my brother... I _have_ to see him."

When the proximity alert sounds in the next second, Simon jumps. Then he's running for the bridge, only a step behind Mal. 

Mal and Wash check the sensors, hands flying over buttons and switches. 

"It's just a shuttle," Wash says. 

Viktor's voice crackles out of the radio. _I'm coming aboard, Captain. I'm alone._

The communication ends. 

Mal straightens up slowly, a puzzled look on his face. He turns to Margaret. "Looks like you'll get your chance."


	13. Good Fences

It was a struggle, but at least River is out of harm's way, crouched up on the catwalk with Jayne's knife in her hand. 

Simon proved more stubborn. He stands beside Mal, armed, but likely to prove of little use for anything but target practice. Mal sighs. At least Viktor really is coming alone, for whatever reason. Sensors confirmed it. 

Mal tried to send Brooke to hide in Inara's shuttle, so she'd have at least a chance to get away, but the girl is stuck to Margaret's side and refuses to leave. They're all here, all his people gathered in the cargo bay. Waiting. A few minutes ago, he would've said they were waiting for their last fight. Now, he just doesn't know. 

Serenity completes the seal to Viktor's shuttle with a final click and rush of air. Mal hits the button that opens the airlock doors. 

Viktor is ready and waiting on the other side, not unarmed--that would be plain stupid--but his weapon his holstered. He holds his hands by his sides, spread wide, palms turned towards them. 

No one on Serenity is actually aiming anything apart from dirty looks at him, but it still has to take balls to step inside. Viktor manages it, with no outward sign of discomfort. He's even smiling a little. 

"Well, Captain, I see you've broken just about every provision I set up for this job. Didn't I say the package was to remain unopened?"

"You also said it wasn't anything I'd object to transporting."

"Would you rather have left her there, knowing what would happen to her?"

The bastard's looking right at River. 

Mal feels Simon shift beside him and lays a warning hand on his arm.

"Suppose you explain what this is all about," Mal says quietly. 

Viktor's smile broadens. "I'd be happy to. Maybe somewhere where we could all sit down comfortably? I could use a drink."

He turns to Inara and bows slightly. "Ms. Serra, may I escort you?"

Inara glances at Mal long enough to get his nod and takes Viktor's proffered arm. 

Everyone else trails after them, bewildered and gabbling like geese at feeding time. 

Mal runs a hand over his face and sighs. "Just once," he mutters. 

Simon's hand slips into his and squeezes lightly. It's more of a comfort than it should be.

The two of them are last to the kitchen, or almost last. Margaret stands just outside the door, looking in. Simon prods her into the room gently and seats her beside them at the table. 

Viktor looks down the length of the table at them. His gaze hesitates on Margaret, but he says nothing. 

"Well?" Mal prompts. 

"I mean you no harm, Captain. Nor anyone here. If you want to check your account, you'll see that the rest of your payment has been deposited."

Linking them neatly to the trouble on Eos. Wonderful. 

"I would've preferred cash," Mal says. 

"I'm sure. But this is what you're getting. If you have any trouble with the law, I retain the best lawyers money can buy."

Finally, things are starting to fall into place. Even if the way they're falling looks to have a certain trap-like shape, it's a relief to know what's going on. 

"Uh huh," Mal says. "If we do what you want, we get your lawyers, and if we don't, you point out that very large deposit to the Feds, right?"

"Are you suggesting that I'm trying to blackmail you, Captain?"

Mal just nods once, sharply. They're already in the trap. There's no point playing games. 

Viktor shrugs. "Well, you're right."

Mal blinks. "I am? Of course I am." He can feel Simon's amusement and kicks him under the table. 

"It is blackmail, but I'd prefer your willing participation. So I also intend to offer you a bribe." 

"More money?" Jayne asks hopefully. 

Mal shoots him a glare, and he quiets down again. 

"More money," Viktor confirms. "And, eventually, the assurance of safety for your crew." He glances at Simon and River and then back to Mal. "All of your crew." 

"You can't guarantee that."

"No one can guarantee against illness and acts of God. I can only offer relief from persecution."

"You can get our warrants revoked?" Simon asks sharply. 

Mal winces. It's all but dead sure that Viktor knew already, but even so. 

"More than that," Viktor says. "With your help, I can get can the surrender that ended the war revoked. I can bring the Alliance to its knees."

It's the expression on Viktor's face that does it, Mal feels sure. The man's eyes are shining, and he gazes over their heads like he's surveying some great vista, rather than what's he's actually looking at, wich is Book's spice rack. 

Kaylee starts giggling first, a tiny sound in the silence. Then Jayne's laughing, and by the end even Inara and Simon have joined in. Mal very nearly has tears rolling down his cheeks. 

Only Viktor, Margaret, and Brooke are quiet, though Brooke is smiling. Margaret looks pissed off about something. Viktor just looks confused. 

"It's not that I don't believe you," Mal says, wiping his eyes.

"Totally don't believe you," Jayne rumbles, still chuckling. 

"Well, okay, it is that I don't believe you. Are you crazy, man?" 

"Are you?" Margaret says. Her voice is cold. "Crazy? It's the only reason I can think of why you'd want to help the people who killed our family."

Viktor turns to her blankly. "I-- You recognize me?"

"I have pictures. You look different, but not that much different. Why? Why would you do this? They razed our town to the ground. They killed everyone. Why--"

"Because it wasn't them," Viktor snaps. "It was the Alliance. Friendly fire, an error, wrong coordinates. When they found out they'd wiped out an entire town of their own supporters, they put it about that the rebels had done it. But I know what really happened. I was on the ship that did it."

Margaret pales, lips thinning. Mal would feel sorry for her if he could spare any sorry away from his own problems. 

"It took me two years to find out you were still alive," Viktor is saying. "I couldn't have done it without Mr. Niska's resources."

"Yeah," Mal says. "He was a real philanthropist."

Viktor shrugs. "He found me wounded and abandoned by my unit and took me in. Whatever else he was, I wouldn't be here without him." He turns to Margaret. "I'm sorry. I thought it would be best if you believed I was dead. You were certainly safer."

Margaret stares at him, tears in her eyes. She stands and walks out of the room. Brooke hurries after her. 

Viktor looks down at the table, drumming his fingers on the surface. When he raises his head, his face is clear of any expression. 

"I will have Margaret escorted to her new school. The other girl needs to be kept safe. I'm sure you agree." He pauses, apparently waiting for the agreement he is sure of. Mal could've told him he won't get any until he defines what he means by safe. "She can stay with you, since you have protection." He glances at Book. "Or she can come with me. I will see to her schooling, of course. She will be well treated."

Dead silence greets this announcement.

Viktor pushes on regardless. "Meanwhile, I'd like to invite you all to be my guests at the skyplex.

"Stubborn, this one," Book murmurs. 

Mal is inclined to agree. 

"We'll hear your proposal," Mal tells him. "Ain't promising nothing past that."

It's not like just listening to him can be all that dangerous.

***

"Mal! This is too dangerous!" 

Mal sits on the edge of his bed and rests his face in his hands. So far, today might actually be worse than yesterday. And he was in jail yesterday. 

"Look at it this way," he tells Simon. "The alternative is likely getting turned over to the Feds. Dangerous compared to that? I'm thinking not so much, what about you?"

Simon paces the confines of Mal's quarters. It takes him, despite his lack of length in the leg department, only about four strides to the wall and four back. 

"It's still a bad idea," he says finally.

Mal is missing the days when he didn't have to explain himself. He knew crew relationships were a bad idea, but did that stop him? 

Simon sits beside him on the bed and leans against him. Mal puts an arm around his waist and remembers why nothing could've kept him from this, most especially not little things like sense and logic.

"We ain't got a choice," he says. "Could yet turn out all right. At least he seems to mean the girl no harm." Simon doesn't answer, and Mal can't see his face. "Said we could even keep her. That's what you want, right?"

Simon turns his head until his face is pressed to Mal's chest. His reply is muffled by cloth. "I don't know. I... I can't think about it right now."

"Don't have to think." 

Mal slides a hand down Simon's side, tugging gently at his shirt until it comes free of his pants. It's still a little damp from that planet. Simon never got time to change. Come to that, Mal's still wearing the clothes he went down to Eos in. At least the trip to the skyplex will give them time to breathe. 

Simon arches his neck into Mal's kisses, but his movements are slow, his eyes drooping shut more with exhaustion than lust. Mal gets the two of them lying down, tangled together, barely gets their shoes off before Simon's breathing evens out. His body is a warm, dead weight against Mal's, one arm slung around Mal's neck, fingers curled in his hair. 

Despite plans to stay awake and worry, Mal is asleep seconds later. 

***

The next meeting with Viktor takes place on the skyplex, despite all of Mal's good sense and judgement. Nobody is happy about it. 

Simon is silent and stoic. Jayne and Zoe are both on edge and ready to go for their sidearms if any of Viktor's people so much as look at them funny. Margaret nearly refused to go at all, but Viktor's invitation had specified her presence, and eventually Inara talked her into it. 

Both Brooke and Margaret have changed into spare clothes from Inara. They look older than they are; Brooke, in particular, looks older even than River. Or rather, River looks like a younger, undernourished version of Brooke. Mal keeps an eye on Simon, but there's nothing he can do to soften that blow. 

They walk through corridors that Mal has seen too many times already, escorted by men whom, when last seen, were trying to kill them. When they reach Viktor's office, however, they find it somewhat changed. 

The two rooms have been connected into one, and all trace of the torture room is gone. Mal lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and glances at Wash, who gives him a weak smile and a thumbs-up. 

Instead of knives and restraints, there is a long, polished conference table. Viktor is sitting at the head of it and rises as they enter the room. 

"Sit, please. Can I offer you anything to drink?"

A nice, steaming hot cup of reality would be great, Mal thinks. This is too gorram weird. 

"No," he says. "Rather just get down to business."

Viktor nods and waits until everyone is seated before settling in his own chair. 

"I'd like to tell you a story," Viktor says. 

That's something Niska said a few times while sticking knives into various parts of Mal's anatomy. He was big on stories. Dead now, Mal reminds himself. 

"Once upon a time, a careless federal agent took a bribe from Mr. Niska and failed to perform the task he was paid for. During the course of his punishment, he said a great many things. He spoke, for example, of an Alliance-sponsored academy for gifted children."

Mal feels Simon stiffen at his side. 

"He talked about the experiments they did there. What their goal was, the agent didn't know, and I still don't know. It's taken me this long to find the secondary facility on Eos and to arrange the retrieval of one of its children." He pauses. "I admit, I chose Brooke because she is Margaret's friend. That was almost three months ago, and I didn't know at the time that the young man who shot Mr. Niska was River Tam's brother."

"But you knew about River?" Simon asks. 

"Oh, yes. I have people watching the news on the Cortex. I knew the moment her warrant was issued. It just took me some time to figure out where I'd seen you before."

Simon looks discomfited by this news, and Mal can't blame him. 

"If story time's over," Mal says, "Maybe we could get to the part where you tell us why we're here?"

Viktor shakes his head. "There's something else you need to know first."

"Well?" Jayne says, never one for patience.

"The academy's head of security left two months after it opened. He ended up at an abbey, of all places. An abbey on Persephone."

Mal assumes that Viktor has turned to look at Book with his new-found sense of drama, but he can't say for sure because he's looking at Book himself.

Book's face is expressionless, and his hands are folded on the table. 

Mal is not going to ask. He just meets Book's eyes and holds. 

Eventually, Book sighs. "I told you the truth, Captain. I never fought for the Alliance."

"No, just screwed with little girls' heads for them."

"That's why you left," Simon says quietly. "Right? You couldn't stop them, so you left."

Books looks down at his hands. "When I took the job, I thought it would be a good way to slow down. Get ready for retirement." He laughs a little. "I thought, how hard could it be, looking after a bunch of kids? We all thought it was a real school. Took a while to work out different." 

"So you left to join the god squad?" Jayne says. "Don't see how that's helpful." 

"I was headhunted, you might say. A certain religious organization, the PKX, contacted me shortly after I left the academy. They felt my skills would be useful to their cause. And I felt I had a great deal to atone for." 

"Exactly," Viktor says, rather too loudly in Mal's opinion. Still, it gets everyone looking at him, which was most likely the point. "Even in an organization as pragmatic as yours, there aren't many who would countenance experimentation on children. There are some things, even in this day and age, that people believe are wrong."

"I notice you're not putting yourself with the moral majority," Book observes.

"Working for Mr. Niska tends to warp one's moral compass," Viktor says. "But what I think about it isn't important. What's important is how much it will hurt the Alliance's authority if it gets out."

Simon shakes his head. "There's no proof. I looked--for _years_. I couldn't find anything to convince even my father, let alone a judge."

"We need more information," Viktor says. "And this is where you come in, Captain."

"I ain't spying for anyone."

"I can hardly imagine what a disaster that would turn out to be," Viktor replies. "No, I don't want your...skills. Such as they are. I want your endorsement."

Mal glances quickly around the table in case anyone else has a clue what that means. He is met by blank looks.

"Huh?" 

"Sergaent Malcolm Reynolds, hero of Serenity Valley. There are more Browncoats than you might think who would obey a call from you even now."

"No," Mal says flatly. 

He gets up and walks out. That should suit Viktor's sense of drama just fine.

Only a few meters down the hall, he hears footsteps behind him. He stops and waits, expecting Simon, maybe Zoe. No one on his boat recognizes a dramatic exit when they see it. 

It's not Simon or Zoe. It's Wash of all people who stops next to him and bounces on his toes once or twice before leaning back against the wall. 

"Well?" Mal says. 

"You can't even smell the blood in there," Wash says. "Pretty impressive, really. I was impressed. Were you impressed?"

"Wash."

Wash raises widens his eyes in innocent inquiry, eyebrows creeping farther than seems possible towards his hairline. "Hm?"

"What are you doing here, Wash?"

"Well, I thought I should stay on the ship, but Zoe said it'd be good for me. You know, get back on the horse. Skyplex. Whatever."

Mal sighs. "What are you doing here, with me, in this hallway?"

"Oh, that." Wash squints thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Simon's talking to Viktor, and Zoe didn't look like she wanted to leave Jayne and his itchy trigger finger alone, and someone had to go after you, so. Here I am!" He smiles, wide and bright. 

Mal grits his teeth. "And I suppose you think it's a brilliant idea."

"Hm, no. In an interesting twist, I don't."

"You don't?" 

"I don't. Mostly because Zoe doesn't. But it's... I don't know." Wash sticks his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor. "Doesn't matter why I don't, right? The point is, I'm not going to stand here and try to convince you. Just came after you because someone had to."

"I'd like to know why," Mal says, and surprises himself by meaning it.

Wash gives him a startled look, but nods. "Okay. So. It's like, if you say 'Do this because I'm a war hero,' people just remember the hero part, and they forget the war part. And it's the war part they ought to remember. Everything that you guys had to do--no matter how you talk about it now, that's not hero stuff."

Mal stares at him for a second and nods. "Yeah." 

Nobody should do anything because of what he did in war. Not that he's ashamed of any it, even the parts he should be ashamed of, because he did what he had to do. But the war's over. You can't change the past, and he's done fighting for lost causes. If Viktor wants to bring the Alliance to its knees, or any other part of its anatomy, he can do it on his own. 

"You think we should go back in there?" Wash asks, after a few milliseconds of silence. 

"Nah," Mal says. "They're probably doing fine without us."

Simon is, at least. Mal can hear him from here, explaining every last flaw in Viktor's plan. Seems like there's a fair few of them. 

Simon will have quite a job fixing those flaws, but Mal has no doubt he can. And there are better medical facilities for River here, and Viktor can get her anything she needs in the way of drugs. 

Book was right when he said Simon might leave if they fought, but beyond that, Mal knows Simon will leave sooner or later anyway. He's not meant for this kind of life. Better he should go now when he has somewhere better to go. Viktor can keep him and River safe from just about anything. Book will be pleased.

Mal makes up his mind that he'll be pleased, too. 

***

Mal and Wash are leaning against the wall in silence by the time Book comes to join them. 

"Ah," Book says. "Here you both are. I was wondering."

Wash lifts a hand in lazy greeting. 

Mal nods. "They still at it in there?"

"Oh, yes. The doctor feels quite strongly on some points. And I believe Viktor has agreed to do without your endorsement. Somewhere along the way. As long as Simon helps him plan things, and it seems it would be hard to stop him."

Mal nods again, looking at the metal plating on the opposite wall. Is that bolt coming loose?

"Captain...will I still be welcome on Serenity, or do I need to find myself other means of transportation?"

Mal frowns. "Thought you'd want to stay with the doc and his sister."

"We'll see how things turn out," Book says calmly. "But Serenity has become my home."

Mal sighs. "You can stay, preacher. Can't say you did anything worse than a lot of people did, and at least you stopped when you saw what was going on."

"Perhaps you can't say I did worse than others, but I know differently."

Mal feels pretty near exhausted just thinking about comparing what he did and what Book did. "Past is past. You can stay if you want."

"Thank you, Captain. I appreciate it."

Silence. The echo of voices from the conference room.

Jayne is the next to join them, stomping down the corridor and slumping against the wall next to Mal. 

"I liked this place better when there was shooting," he says. "Is that boy of yours ever gonna shut up?"

"Don't look likely," Mal says. 

Kaylee, Brooke, and Margaret emerge in a group and settle quietly on the floor near Mal's feet. Kaylee pulls some string out of her pocket and shows them how to make Jacob's ladder. Brooke takes the string from her, looks at it for a second, and makes something that looks like lace and doesn't unravel when she pulls it off her fingers.

Margaret looks up at Mal. "Brooke and I are staying here. Dr. Tam thought that would be best."

"Thought your brother didn't want you here."

Her mouth tightens. "I don't care what he wants. I'm staying with Brooke."

Mal nods. He's never had any luck with teenage girls. She's Viktor's problem now. 

Finally, Zoe joins them, hands clasped behind her back and a cross look on her face.

"Hallway's getting a mite crowded," Mal says. 

"Yes, sir."

"Reckon we could head back to the ship."

"Yes, sir."

Mal nods and stands up. 

Kaylee says goodbye to the girls, and they're on their way. 

***

In his bunk, Mal takes off his boots, unbuttons his shirt, slides off his pants. Hangs things up and sets his boots by the end of his bed. Climbs between cool sheets and turns off the lights. 

It's early for sleep. Only dinnertime, really. But he doesn't want food right now. 

His pillow smells like Simon's hair. It's surprisingly easy to sleep. 

When he wakes again, he knows he's not alone. Eyes still closed, deep even breaths, reaching for his gun. Just in case. 

"It's all right," Simon say softly. "It's me."

"What are you doing here?"

Simon's weight dips the side of the bed. "You left without me."

"You weren't in any danger."

Simon's hand brushes his hair, warm in the dark. "You think I'm leaving, don't you?"

"It'd be the sensible thing to do. And you are the sensible one."

"You're right about that. It would be sensible. Viktor showed me his medical facilities. The lab alone is impressive, and he even has an operating room. And a scanner, like the one on Ariel. I took some scans of Brooke. They may help with River."

"Glad to hear it."

"Funny." Simon eases down to lie beside him. "You don't sound glad."

Mal scoots close to the wall, but it's a small bed. Touching him is unavoidable.

"Well, I am."

"You're a terrible liar, Captain."

Mal can feel Simon's closeness, warm breath on his cheek just before their lips meet. Simon's hand curves around the back of Mal's neck, and Simon's tongue slides between his lips, and Mal can't stop himself from responding to that. It's maybe half a minute before he manages to push Simon away. 

Simon just comes after him, scooting closer as Mal sits up, so he can't get out of bed without shoving Simon to the floor. "I'm staying, Mal." 

"Are you now." 

"Someone told me that once you've been in Serenity, you never leave." 

"That's real poetical."

Simon sighs in the dark. He leans forward until his cheek brushes Mal's. "He won't hurt Brooke. He vaules his sister's good opinion too much. But I'd never stop worrying while River was in his power."

"And he's just letting you go?"

"I'll consult with him by wave. He seems to recognize the value of having a criminal mastermind on his side." 

Mal snorts. "That easy?"

"Sometimes things do go smooth," Simon says softly. "You don't think we were due for a break?"

It'd be the first in a good span of years, Mal thinks. But maybe. Just maybe. 

"Yeah, well. Don't go thinking that overthrowing the Alliance is gonna get you out of doing chores. And make sure it doesn't interfere with things around here. I got a smuggling business to run." 

Simon laughs and kisses him again and pushes him down onto the bed.


End file.
